I’ve been guilty of losing track of what is holy—
the antique candle holder we used 
to prop open the fire escape window in our 
bedroom, or the song sparrow that flew inside one morning
and blessed us as we slept. I remember the
air flowing through my body, the buzz 
of my hands trembling as we pursued 
the bird with a Tupperware container,
catching it and releasing it back onto the
weathered rug out on the fire escape, 
and the sound of the man shouting 
to a friend across the street as I put 
my body out the window to set the bird free; 
in that moment, I was sure the man 
had witnessed our awe and terror
until I saw his friend jogging lightly across the
street to hug him, and I realized he had not
seen us, not looked up even once. When you asked 
me what I was feeling later that morning, 
I had already forgotten about 
the amount of air I felt in my body, and I said 
I was wondering about the differences between 
what is beautiful and what is real. What
I meant to say is, My love, I feel so small and
insignificant and so full of grief,
and I don’t think I understand anything. 
In the afternoon, down by the Hudson, 
we watched the sun set over New Jersey, 
breathing in the wind dancing across the water, 
and you touched the back of your hand
to mine and asked me, Are you not astonished? 
while I stared mournfully toward the darkening horizon, 
and as we walked back to our apartment, 
they had opened a fire hydrant on our street, 
and a woman—a beautiful woman 
wearing a white linen dress— 
held her baby over the spouting hydrant, 
like an offering to God.