Today is an old day,
leaking
the passed night's rain,

almost with its dawn already
yesterday,
faded replicant of yet another supplicant.

I'd throw it away, used-up as
a broken comb, a flared match fired once to
light something gone,

except
the birds
greet it with such celebration,

singing their
soft explosions
above the autumn seeds.

September 2025

In the Amazon there's a moth
who lives by drinking the night-tears
of sleeping birds.

By day she's folded asleep
deep in green minarets where purple frogs
sweat pearls of poison.

If she dreams, it's only by accident.
At dawn the birds fly up, eyes
opened by song, tears given

without intent or knowledge
as I give mine, silver life
to the mouths of memories.



March, 2024