Every bird has gone to Willow Beach.
They leave St. Anthony’s dull and in the nude.
The cathedral I remember’s just
a tunnel ramming through
an open wound.
Willow Beach, I don’t know anything about it.
But it’s nice here, too, and quiet.
I can hear their echoes if I try.
St. Anthony’s, I don’t live there anymore.
The birds held it up, wall by wall,
but I don’t think anybody missed them
when they got bored.
I don’t think anybody noticed when they left.