Untitled IX.

From the carpark, I hear the 
Bass rattle from a song that I do
Not know; this is over the trill
And warble of birds that sound
Tiny— they sound as if they
Are welcoming in the spring
Or arguing for sexual dominion
And before me, a man talks to
Me about Jamaica— Clarendon,
About Chalkhill; ancient burial
as he put it, and about
A creator God, and even though  
I just knew he was recruiting, he
Was nice, and sometimes nice
Is just nice.