and the sky is a shoreline, unwashed.
On the lines, kestrels thrust blue bodies
upwards into light. In the street, where
rainwater pools, palm-sized sparrows
rustle – how sweet the rush and flick
of their tiny wings! Slowly, the night
churns darkness from light. Beyond me,
the milkweed sways, its bold stalks
of gentle pink encrusted in a layer
of honeybees. In the air the birds
hold conversations amongst themselves.
Oh, to take part in such a language;
to taste such languid speech!
The spruce is still and dreams
of becoming water. I am sipping
a bundle of wildflowers, a hungry
hummingbird. Of whom do the birds
dream when the moon shoos them
to sleep? Now the sky is a crushed
blueberry. I dare not speak the words
I might have spoken yesterday.
Make no mistake: I am small
and there is room for only one
in your palm. My body is a broken
trumpet. I am hollow. No song
remains. I will forgive the night
her sorrow. May it crush me:
your absence, this grief.
Let your rest be my comfort.
Your mouth my first taste.
Oh, but this is cruelty –
the whole world is shimmering
as I vanish, day after day.
