Three by Noah Warren
Winter birds in the black trees, do you hear me.
The Divine Comedy took place so long ago.
Sometimes I could cry when I remember
how little Italian I know, how little
of the machinery of God. Like dawn,
what is it,
and the night coming on
so soon after. Screeching choirs,
tree after tree going up in light—
I am nothing
before coffee, do you hear me, nothing.
The stillness pauses.
Above the hill, the air is
a ladder: red to slate.
Beneath the hill, the sea.
The sea is more beautiful
than it was even yesterday,
when it grew still as earth.
It is impossible to imagine
how it will look tomorrow;
now every gesture is erasure;
it never was; and still it is
felt: a sea.