for Sam

Once the rain let up I was sure
the East River’d have a new tributary
to show for it. Instead, more of the same,

and a new subspecies of kingfisher
last night; I dreamt it, but couldn’t
make out its eyes. It dripped dark green

from a black marsh tree, and it was large, looked
large, even in its large tree. That’s how
you can tell. It might’ve flown,

or spoken, but I woke up, had to
put the coffee on and battle
linens. Nothing called me, I guess,

to stay; not everything
is omen. All the flights again
are off the ground—to Budapest,

to Stockholm and Rising Sun.
It’s not enough, anymore, to say of course
I would’ve liked to know

how it ended. I’ve waited around
like that before. God showed up
long enough to purse his lips

and not look at me, my old black tree
extinct already by the time I remembered
to turn back around.
Aaron Magloire is from Queens, New York. His poems have appeared in Boston Review and elsewhere.