barely really begun

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
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
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


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