Born of a sharpness, and set to music.

In my hat I sit
in my cellar
waiting

This was our enemy with whom we
danced a half century

I told you the words to it oriole.
Now when an ear come
say it right.

Kiss the mother 
that needs to become 
that needs to need

I’m going to make a poem out of nothing.

having lectured on gut health for industry leaders,
having liked the energy I brought to the role,
having fashioned a lean-to for my taxes

I am William, who by nature needs to chant     triste now, I’ll make
this song from it

In my experience—waking
life—nothing had readied me for such an arrival.

They say that when a goose flies south it holds a twig in its beak to keep from making a sound the hunters might hear.