Don Berger

You as in what
Angle I saw you from,
The birches, real ones, moved
In a wild way
Past your shoulder

I knew
Then what I can’t think of
Every night the room
Still has walls And a newness

All of the ways
To do something
Work too hard
You that rushes in
Like a word

Is there more
Than sound
To the wind
Someone far off
Keeps asking