you can see only the shape of the red-billed pigeon                in the bathroom window, opaquenessa distance the yardrepeats. the moon sinks—its                persistence a syllable swellingthrough the day.a child draws worry as a river,                its stones neatly pressed to one side.when we take a photograph of the landscapewe find ghosts of trees in ways dimming                around themselves to createindentations of other selves.I come home and empty out someone else’s                drawers. the blurriness oftrees deepens, though the periphery remainspointed as if to highlight, interiority being                a complicated resolve. the red-billedpigeon halfway hatched from its eggits shell a root taken from                a landscape and turned upsidedown, our own want left tounplace its things within idled                forms. you can hear a singing still beforeopening—the self quietly separated from its own sound.