Does the season match the birdsong,
did I hear the birdsong over the white noise machine,
who brought the white noise machine here,
was it the other, heaving next to me under a shroud,
for how many seasons has he/she been sleeping here
next to me, was there a logic of want to begin with
in a seaside town or a dark box rattling underground,
did he/she come through a revolving door like the termite
winding up through the drain of my sink basin,
was there a seasonal contract or perpetual exchange,
who installed this sour drain in my middle, is it time
to adjust my angles, for whom, whom today, tomorrow,
what is history cloaking, as burlap wraps around wet figs,
is there a logic of want, when will my season match my song.

Zoë Hitzig, “1st Trial for the New Aubade”, in Mezzanine