Checkpoint
       

These are the days when birds come back.

These are the days the birds. These days

these birds. These days are these birds.

Let us see these days these papers. When

are these birds, and where are your papers.

Where are you going. Come back answer

me where you are going. Behind the barn,

the flame tree, our fire, our wings, these birds,

behind the trees the bursting winds the birds.

These days come back. They do not, there

what color is your ruby-throat, your toothbrush

yellow-breasted warbler green flame blue-

jay marsh thrush among the light the lush, low

timid leaf she said by the river what fire

is your nova is your wife's hairbrush

take off your shoes take your hands off

stop right there so many coming over as

so many millions fewer wings these papers

of fragile bones vanished they are not

where are you going I said come back.

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Copyright © 2020 David Baker All rights reserved
from Bennington Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission