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For The Birds at the Chinese Market Who Sing When the Box is Open

I envy you the darkness
the four heads of your brothers
a quartet of voices silent with waiting.
And I envy you the child’s hand
the way it flutters
with indecision how a boy decides
the lid must go and I envy you the song
filling the child with wonder.
The lids returns, each note
stops begins again, the boy
plays this game of rhythm
and there is no reason.

Yet you sing when the box
is open.