My sweetheart is the worst
at admitting she’s the best,
so we usually avoid

the rankings altogether.
She is a birdsong,
a melody warmed by meat

and feathers that hovers
above my head.
I am middle C.

It seems like the whole world
is busy whacking weeds
or wishing they had weeds

to whack.
They’re either denying
that the black sedan

has access to their cul-de-sacs
or sitting in its passenger seat
fiddling with its radio.

My sweetheart isn’t a bird
but that which passes through
a bird, a poem, a neighborhood.