I surrender to stop signs,
storms, that loose screw
in the window casing, grime
defiling the grout. I acknowledge
the dissolution of my first love
and that crucial, painful inning
when the visitors’ cleanup batter
cracked a drive to deep left,
ran gale-force, slid cleanly
into third. (My tag swept
short, I allow.) I yield
to the forces that stilled
the stunned sparrow we hoped
to rescue. I flailed at make-believe,
tossed up wobbly Kool-Aid
concessions. See me bristle, snap,
critique. I hail the careful ones
who cradle test tubes, resist
the bait, skip the link, tally
data with purity of heart—
and whosoever can be counted on
to name, on sight, amid further
distressing reports, any given
wide-eyed species of owl.
May I fall into their knowing.
I submit to winter’s
half-melt shame and kneel
before summer’s trumped-up
flames. Lead me, please,
past this wall-pounding cry
for reasons, just desserts, safe
passage to a lost calm. Give
over, make way—I
concede. I concede.
