The dusk settles the bet between the sky and the crows, clouds and phone poles, wings and trees. The ink dries slow and solemn. This is the world that bears you. This is the world that knows your kine. Every flight will fall, every word will fail. Everything tendered as smoke or ghosts.
The words are pressed between the pages, stiff-spined litanies forever holding their breath. The feathers bend soft and strong. This is the weight the sky allows. This is the weight that bears your burden. Every eye so set upon the sharpness of each star. Everything written as boom or bust.
So much depends the poem goes. Heaven all about who's asking. The truth scribbled down as the most often abandoned, a stone sleeping on the tongue, a piece of glass buried beneath the heart. This dull hope, this deep measure. The body either dead or alive, depending on the words or facts around it. Breath taking to the flesh and machinations, rise or fall, gravy or grave. These wages and wagers, the shadows reach and stretch. The sparrow a sparrow whatever is said.