In the afternoon four black-throated blues
Tossed themselves up from the pavement at nothing.
At the rain. And having made a surgeon take back
His stitches early, I lifted my phone
Beyond the shelter of my unsteady umbrella
And tapped at their cursive capital Gs.
Suddenly I felt ashamed. You could see
I had nothing better to do. I stopped.
Four in the morning. Fill the kettle by touch.
Floof the gas. Unpick the bandage
To look, though water does boil watched.
We can’t not solve the problem.
The sky facing the birds and me had glared
Like undeveloped photo paper.
Find a voice to sing against the voice
That doesn’t answer when asked why not.