Stealth and the need to breathe unscavanged
air abound as the whole world is split
by black wires and the lightningstrike bare branches of trees.
A wealth of color lights below in the starestark
early hours, the wind an unwinding within
the measured strokes of wings. This and the dead are
each day. Find vanity in the things the sun loves,
find life where ever the living are careless. Whether
there are tombstones, you remember them as
tracing slivers and gleam, as rawbone and steam:
not a glimmer of approval, not a kiss of malice.
Who wants to know this bit of horizon as the sky
begins to glow at dawn? Who wants to know the price
of red and orange and questions left to answer?
There are no records kept of anything important,
all stored uncaring in the myths of a thousand
awkward motions, a thousand careless sounds. Only soul
survives, high in periphery, feathers and harsh song:
alive in silhouette, history lingers.