I’ve foreseen this moment for so long:
Always on some other plane, in some other grain
Of sand—in the far-off of time
Some future, a world away, too indistinct to decipher
the blurred edges into a clear line.

I’ve had nothing but hot electric tears
to warm my bed this year,
but they’ve long since gone cold.
See? the birds know.
Outside my window, they sing in the dawn
Long and low:
come home, come home

I don’t know where it begins or ends.
Small snips, short-lived,
Cut from the reel, spun through my head--
Some future, a world away, too tangled to unravel
the golden, living threads from the ashes of those long-dead.
(I don’t know where they begin or they end)

But this is the plane, and this is the place;
This is the axis of time & space
Where the birds sing you home on a path so old,
you can’t help but remember the way.
Reach down to the ground, wrap your fingers ‘round
the tangles of this golden thread,
pull it from the ashes of those long-dead.
The dust, once settled, will find its way
into the skies, then kiss my eyes.
(but it burns, it screams like a blow to the head)

You, a sweet surprise— the ash in my eyes—
Sharpening the edges into clear, cutting lines
That run ragged and ravenous through my head,
drag me through the ashes of the long-dead and I
Promise not to scream when they snip this thread--
(Oh, I would really love if you’d pull this thread)


Yes, I’ve foreseen this moment for so long:
You linger,
I blink;

and then you are gone.