I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
—Wallace Stevens
My window is divided into perfect squares.
One for regarding, one for gazing, for glimpsing,
spying, watching, checking, contemplating and one
for just plain seeing. A couple left
for pining, remembering, hoping, regretting–
and something, not just longing,
but akin to sehnsucht,
which comes closest to reflecting what I feel,
staring through a veil of glass,
unsure which version of myself
to offer to the world. I scan
my sundered horizon: five pecan trees, as tall
as a 727 is long, but far older.
I inspect their male and female flowers.
I peep, I peek, I peer,
I examine, contemplate, and scrutinize—
a cornucopia to consider.
Oh, Pomona, help me to agree!
Though a crow is a black bird,
it is not a blackbird.
Eurasian, Brewer’s, Red-winged, Boat-tailed—
how to tell a raven from its cousin crow?
How to tell the now I am from the then I was?
A bird perches in one oak. I put my palm up
to block out the light,
and a grackle lands on my finger.
