little bird,
your worth is defined
by the song you sing,
nothing else

it matters not
how your song
is received

nor how loud,
nor how often,
you sing

neither whether
or not
the world is left
in awe of your tune

simply the music
you put out
into this world

what could empty you?
          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall


labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             conquered,
             we go on
and put life first


ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
etched
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
         shards,
                      debris
remember   remember
           remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
        fewer,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.


cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?


emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
feeling
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?


—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:

           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name

empty man,
solid, solid,
flooded light

to desire
—vague and burning—
something beautiful

handsome,
though nothing
on the inside

darkness to
easy, easy,
daylight