Tuesday, April 15, 2014

The Missing

An egret whirls into the wind,
and then turns and folds in upon itself and lands
beneath a cloud of water;
while in the distance,
airplanes at the edge of thunder
murmur and echo

like the thin mirrors of the ego,
glittering and lost, and I shudder
in the dark and consider
the dead (and all of their voices),
an unwavering remembrance,
a delicate descent.