Conversations (XV) — to waking alone
In the morning I woke deep in conversation.
The clock is a word. My wrist reaching for air
Is a word. Blankets the words I chose not to say.
The crow saws a gust of wind and it’s a word
The hole the woodpecker leaves is a word
He was looking for but could not find.
You are speaking to me like the wind speaks bird.
The starlings slur into the walnut tree’s crown
And crisply become its dreams. Transparent.
Not a team but sticking together for survival.
A murmur, against the gust. They say
The heart sleeps on the breath of a starling.
Such a small thing can wake it. What does
Someone else’s dream dreaming look like?
The crow’s wing feather’s spread like a saw.
A sliver of iridescence against the gust.
The zipper on the polka dot
Pajamas stuck halfway down, but far enough.
The sky’s skull softened and its blue eye grew.
Where vision is so vast there’s nothing more to see.