—for dear Steve
His metaphor was of the white maples yieldingsugar and what the sugar camp was like
and the sumac sprouts;
and of twigs wrapped in the daintiest packages
and freight paid.
Mine is of the policeman following me in Beechview
thirty years ago from street to street up
one steep hill and down another, my car going
slower and slower, stopping once even for a second
so I could look at a piece of paper and circle
back to where I started with the dead bird I smelled in the woods.
Mine is of the dead bird.
