They do not fly in that perfect vee of childhood
Anymore, but in clumps, gristly bits, one or two shifting hard
To sustain a rhythm amid electrical wires, others
Falling into a slack skipping rope over the river.
And still the crying going on.
I told you yesterday I would write a poem
That does not plummet once into nostalgia,
Just one, but it seems I cannot.
There is nothing in me that is not somehow
Old & looking back, upon a child
Who was already old & looking back too.