What Bird Unseen

I wake sometimes in the morning wondering
If age has quietly in the night erased
Another thing I once knew existed.

All day then I remain unsure if my gaze
Rests on anything I’ve seen before or if
I’ve only continued filling in blanks.

I try to imagine what flavours might have
Once begun as molecules thin in the air
Before consolidating on my tongue,

What bird unseen in a high place might have moved
Wistful configurations of air as notes
Through narrow passages of its warm throat

I can no longer hear. I wake wondering
If (or wishing) the memories I can’t bear
Stand so starkly because they’re freshly drawn

And if this moon I cling to on sleepless nights
Under green needles near the slow hourglasses
Wind and water shape daily from sandstone

Might never move at all without impetus
From impossible trees, improbable waves.
Oh where are the pines oh where is the sea?

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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