“A Dark Matter” by Barbara Langhorst

So shy, immaterial, you lit out at night for a climate
that knows no change, peeping to the call of winter
in Jamaica, first-primed paradise. Now, Swainson’s
warbler, spread your wings wide, a better treat
than an eagle in the hands of the migrating
naturalist, your
by song interrupted
by glass. More elusive
than two in the bush, you lay
splayed on the chiller a full twenty
empty hours. Stroked now, how
your peppered yellow
throat thrills to the fall
heard only in the mind
of the unknown,

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