There are birds here,
the garden has no fence.
My neighbor checks in on the roses
and brushes away lice with soft
working hands.
I’m looking out from the frailbed
through the window
at him, and past
to the mountains further, west.
The strokes of dusk
yet heavy of you
My neighbor moves towards this and
still goes.
He knows I’m here.
It is enough.
Silver in his hair,
silver in a snail’s thread.
Threads in my head.
