His poem is called “To Mark It In Time.”
It is October. On the television is a
documentary about Cassavetes. This time I’m
onto something.
A hummingbird.
How it approaches the window
several times a day. Stops.
Looks in through the tinted window?
Eye level on the 33rd floor.
A new box of kleenex. Water. Sunflower.
Making some change. Make some change!
I take it back. It is not good enough.
This poem is for the blue-handled pair of scissors
that sits underneath the gap between
my two flat computer screens.
