How to Hear the Birds, How to Hear Them All Or, The Love Song of R. J. Galvin

First day of fall, it feels, though three weeks ago
was the equinox, first puffy jacket day in Chicago

in true crisp after early rain, mottled morose
moody clouds, first day wishing for a hat. What shape

should the hat take, cap or dome, styles have changed
and I have not. Something I’ve misplaced….

or was it a foretaste. I shall not display my waist.

Here I am, nearly fifty, good God
cravings displaced

memory spottier, say the wrong word
one word another word replaced

say which word which name whose name
questioning questioning what to embrace

full of trepidation yet thrumming
organs breathing happening yet braced.

Muddy detritus whips like a twirling kite, lines erased
all swirl, I grasp and clutch at cords and shreds

a concatenation of little lifetimes, a whole
lifetime. What is life but aftertaste?

Twenty-five years fresh in my memory
twenty-five ahead of clarity if I’m graced

if I’m lucky lucky lucky. How to make sense
of what comes next, do I need more words placed

in my lines or fewer? Extension or compression?
Skinny jeans or boot-cut? Platforms or flats? What won’t I unlace.