I am not trying to be a man how [“birdsong isn’t trying to be”]
birdsong isn’t trying to be
an orchestra a murmuration isn’t
trying to be a spray
of fighter jets neither are trying to be
constellations which don’t compete
with fireflies who ignite my backyard
in blinking circuitry
my backyard
isn’t trying to be a forest despite
the two Norway maples
despite the wooded origins of
this square plot my birth
isn’t my only origin isn’t the only
gate I charge through
the gate to my house isn’t a mouth
the windows not eyes my mouth is
not a home for my speech my song
appears only when it leaves me
how I caw
when displeased
yet my displeasure isn’t
my compass its sense
of direction despicable my pleasure is
my pinwheel spangling light everywhere
my pinwheel is my compass
four vanes spinning how walking fast
I see versions
of my body in vestibule mirrors
in wet car windows in automatic shop
doors gliding open
my body trained to do an impression
of a tree doing an impression
of wind doing an impression
of a person moved to dancing
by the swelling crescendo
of questions until the rehearsal stops
today isn’t a stage
despite my desire to secure
the curtains open in red
velvet rope to let
the floor lights shine me
to feel the breath the belief
Source: Poetry (January/February 2026)