our voices roam through walls.
the plastered leaves have made a roof
above us, moist alabaster.
in the wet space of our breaths
fluttering, the trill song we sing
while the world is falling around us
from what we can see
through the glass window.
a reckless dew, wind-rushed
melody of the heavy elm
i circle you
like the beak of a crow,
the misunderstood fortune of luck
that reads like a bad omen, the feather
misplaced in a couplet of rolled twigs,
a late arrival of setting moons,
your cousin’s smile
a slant flight of stars crash-landed
in some back alley, crooked wings.
a song itself sung by the clouds, stormdrains.
your lips olives softened by rain.