Between two bellies

Between two bellies—

sky and ground—

white scatters:

birds in space

in space-wrapped collection

like bits of memory

like bits of me

or the holes

punched from paper,

bouncing confetti circles

for the afterhours cleaning crew

to remove—

or the white scatters

of plum blossoms

dropping such relief

to the sidewalk

as the tree had been hit

by a backing truck, ouch,

and we weren’t sure

it would flock white

with the rest

of the plum trees on the block.

There are not so many birds,

but uncountable,

and the bellies of sky and ground

are as large as I can look

at them,

as large as I can see.

What might I say

when I go back inside?

The air is cold.

Gregarious birds

look like freedom to me.

I’m longing for something

to click into place,

for all the pieces

to flock into a semblance,

into the picture

of resolved sense.