at the foot of a shower,
on drifting sands,
around the noose of a door knob,
left alone in the street,
asleep, in bed.
the last crow has cackled,
the lark has sung,
all song brought on
with the weight of
a familiar emptiness,
conducting the choir invisible.
be and are and jay and emmes.
i carry them in my chest
deep within
and between clavicle and rib,
pulsing through vena cava
and towards fingertips,
reaching at the sky
please, i say,
bring me a rain to wash out
the interminable grief,
the browning leaves, the stillness
of a cold winter night
in august.
keep me tethered here for as
long as you need
and do not shirk me so easily
from your carriage
when you've grown tired
of my transparency
and my soul.
