THREE POEMS

Field Notes by a Slender Path I held a birdin my hand. No. It was a game—a child’s game. No, my bird friend saidwhen he unstrung the mist net whereone bird hung mid- flight, between scruband sumac, by the slender path.Like this. He placed it so. In myopen palm—then closed my fingersfingers up. Female yellow warblerhe said, and he barely turned herleg to read the band there, while I—how can I say this—felt our heartsin one gray breath. Edge juvenile.In the game, as hard as you can,you clap your hands. Clench one fist—throttle your wrist. Maybe your friendpresses your thumb, so that it stings,goes numb, goes ash. The net is blowing.It’s delicate as a soft cloud.You count to ten. Now loosen—oneby one—your fingers … you know the rest. An Ocean Sunfish is a moonfish, too.I mean, lexically—it’s obliviousto our languagesof choice, a swimming flipside of itself … But if big watercould cup a puddle,…