Dilemmas I faced years ago
                        déjà vu–a sparrow in my bedroom
hits the ceiling fan.  
            I whistle at the bird–its bright eye gleams.
                                    Not again.

When I open the door, it flies a straight line
to winter.
                       Years ago, I broomed it out.
If the weather turns, I recall beloved faces 
                                                no longer here
                                –a late tide of the lost.
            Are those only false memories?

Let’s talk about how good you look today.
            Amnesia whirls to the mouth of a river 
                        washed in silver oolong light.