This morning he found himself again
in his files, or a beta
version, from those years
when he had spent
his lunch breaks scraping
his hands reaching
through blackberry vines.

That tire on the river sand, tread
gone to hell, last season’s
Christmas tree, a broken
pallet, the rusted head
of a hatchet, the rotting
condom—he once had
something to say to each
of these, now mostly gone
or grafted in ghostly traces onto
his later (much more happy) life.

Even so, there was that one bird
in his files that caught him
by surprise—a simple
sparrow that lay there still
in all of its awkward en-
jambment, face first against
the wet cement of the river path
where he had obviously left him to rot.

He does his best now in an effort not
of resuscitation, of course, but more
as a sentimental—and okay,
yes, sacramental—gesture
to brush the wings clean
and lift the little head
and open the beak
so as if only, at last,
to speak for him. Finally,
the sparrow will make some sense.
Finally this sparrow will make some sense.