it is all dead here;
the birds sing bones awake.
slow is the air
when the sky sleeps.
a fringe to hunger for
when the center dims
all glowing notes
is all we feed hope for.

escaping fangs lazily is
just wraiths scraping ancient
havens clean and leaving.

same old shape-changing...

see the bowl?
see the ocher?
this is us silently slumming
through the rush of present
flesh and far-flung mind;
derelict awareness shared
sparingly.

it's all love though.