last night the dead bird flew.
a feather scribed sigils
into palms,
into surfaces too weary to hold
a broken moon
but tender enough to push
the sky back.
that dreaming quill wrote my future
the same as yours
[ at the end at least ]
but I do not fear that quiet
empty echo
for every witness to death
becomes a mirror.
every morning I listen to my image-
noise folds neatly into silence
and silence into noise.
an absence of sound falls
everywhere and anywhere but there.
but here also.
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