The worry has a form like when
red-winged blackbirds leave stalks
in your field. Those minor flashes of red:
trouble. The mayhem goes east, returns west,
stirred from morning perches by transience,
by some bird-god signal. Below breastbone,
your breath cascades into the magnum of a sigh.
You strain hot tea at the kitchen table,
recap the jam, two pieces of toast buttered
on their darker side. You shake the hall rug,
boil water for the dishpan. Body betrays,
betrays its own purpose, not to restore order,
not to clean out, as you loosen curtain ties
against sunlight. The phone rings and blackbirds
bend south. You open a blue sheet over the bare bed.