It is in the beating of the birds’ wings
It is in the beating of the birds' wings, and in the length of a line, and in the sound of a woman's shoes on the sidewalk as she runs for a bus then slows down because the bus has gone. It is in the changes you have seen in seasons since your childhood, and in the grey instant circle of a drip chamber, and in the ferry's evening trip across the strait. Other poets have better described it. I cannot even give it a name. It is in the snorting of painkillers, and in going sober, and in all the occasions to be borne.