It became your rosary:
that battered mouthful of stale speeches; what was out of sight
along the river, hidden behind strings of trees marked
for the woodcutter’s pile. A wrapped blanket, fallow,
at the edge of the field in winter.
There are things worth conceding:
A litany wrung from chewed cloth.
A cause abandoned at sundown.
Four birds, dead, along the side of the road.
As our eyes widened we learned that place was a matter of understanding.
Oh, you four birds,
where is it that I can place my hand upon your heartbeat?