Inaudible consonant inaudible vowel
The word continues to fall
                                      in splendor around us

Four ducks on the pond tonight, the fifth one MIA.
A fly, a smaller than normal fly,
Is mapping his way through sun-strikes across my window.

It’s Saturday afternoon at the edge of the world.
White pages lift in the wind and fall.
Dust threads, cut loose from the heart, float up and fall.

A postapocalyptic poetry
                                                        starts with a dog bite
And featherless birds in the ruined trees,

The poem is a self-portrait
                                                                      always, no matter what mask
You take off and put back on.

Things that divine us we never touch:
The black sounds of the night music,
The Southern Cross, like a kite at the end of its string,

Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
      like a dew.
In the morning, little galaxies, they flash out

I’m winding down. The daylight is winding down.
                                                                     Only the night is wound up tight.
And ticking with unpaused breath.

Wrapped like a sprained ankle from head to toe,
                                                                                 locked in glass
In an inconceivable country.