Contact James McGonigal
I was losing ground, losing my place
in a book, losing your face in the crowd.
And the bird that flew against clouds
had lost its place on the branch—
twisting above the chimney pots
looking for smoke to rise,
looking to rise on thermal currents.
Bricked up hearths.
And in the evening when the sky fell down
what a mood set in about the house,
as if it had been thatched with needles.