Lost Birds

Before he's visible,
I hear the song,
whistle and twitter
formed by lips
practiced
in the art of music.

No feathers warm
his balding head,
exposed and public.

On weekends,
he plays the old tunes,
goes back to
his piano-playing days,
says we're not ready
for his new voice.

(Included in the anthology
Irlandesas,
Edicíones Bajo
de Luna, Buenas Aries.)