There are tunnels through my brain, as if animals
have traveled through. Or so it seems
when I’m this tired. I reach for a thought
about the word yeast—singular or plural?
I grasp the memory of Oliver’s fiddle
in a hotel room at 3 a.m., music that foretold
his eternal spirit. I look for my driver’s license
and find instead the smell that smacked me
the first time I descended the subway stairs.
Where have my aunts’ birthdays gone?
Gone to crows, fled south for winter.