at some point, the suitcase,
the old car packed blind,
the headlong tumble out of the tree
before the updraft and the sky.
after this, all glory, all beauty,
boredom of days and the heart's unease,
the long ballad written in blood.
the nest remains on the branch,
the old house on the same street.
you think you know that place,
but you can not discover it
in ten thousand things.