drifting (torrential) dreams—
loose as vagabonds,
their gentle hum (suspicions of
burning bridges),
the pinhole of today
collapses (like breath through
a cracked window).

(government listens
to birds
kiss
satellites goodnight;
their frequency is
a whalesong—
a wind heard
only in the hollow
of you/me/us).

we (trust) like branches
struggling
toward a reflection of
not-quite-sky.

make it (code) names transcendence.
make it seconds (resonating)—
a journey (intimate,
an interrogation) of
(expectations to
accept) the sound
we sing together.