it is darkness, falling
last day
of the solar yr
you woke /we
along w the grievances, the nightcalls
that slim, strange bird at the edge of the creek
where the fountain is, where it
leads
it is distinct, cutting visual
but only as a dream
it comes back to me (as you)
in the words i use to replay the scene
or
track the path
~
i cannot hunt, cannot ask, dare not scream
smoke curls the air is haunted, it is only
if i say so, not if i look
and certainly not if i sit here, still
shaking, waiting
for breath
to calibrate
~
it is dark as silk is dark, diaphanous retro
yards of fabric spilling &
calling &
heavier, yet
the bird is made of gold
its quill as silent as the silver blue
light of the moon
don’t hold back
i’m far from done,
i haven’t even barely–really
begun
