It isn’t mine to sing though
the singing isn’t stealing,
the song picks its own
team, not just the sparrows
chittering in the pines,
not just the dogs
raising hell at the neighbors
shuffling down the driveway like
lords of the earth, haughty about
the home. Our voices raised
like the shock of defeat,
raised like the baffled revenants
beneath some Christ-y craft or
muddled magics, we sing
down the crisp leaves, we low
the bright out of the sky
sad machines that function with
all due gravity and the green that’s gone.
But the sky is blue and the black
crows choose their riots amid
the clamor of cars crunching leaves,
the late flies, the blinding sun
bowing on its way out.
We sing and sing
wash us clean, love us true
our Sunday song loud and strong,
hand after empty hand, the long day
lost as I sing and sing.
