Outside the hospital
Beneath the fathomless, burning rage of  a star. In February

The mountain rose like a wing.

An encroaching wing, like an
Owl's fateful flight, half the path

speckled in blood. Encircled by
the weight of parting, we waited
patiently, tiredly.

(Grief is but the path we blindly stumble)

Our tears, the briny residue
of electricity, poured out profusely
Like a thousand small rivers
Running wild in the desert