The sky coming for us and it is not pleased.
The old gossip of rain falls apart into splintered glass.
In each death, there is an alternative ending.
One of them crinkles into paper birds singing.
In the warehouse of darkness, there are questions.
You can unpack them, but when assembled are meaningless.
Your breath is waiting across the street under a streetlight.
It wants to know the value of waiting.
Who knows what small truths hide in a closet afraid?
In another death, a chorus of peepers trills in marsh light.
We could be planets of gnats circling a grazing cow.
We could be among the trail of blue flashes.
When designing angels, God thought wistfully of birds
and secondly of men attempting to become birds.