Your collectors betray me
in threads.
Each project a hand-
sewn dead pigeon, plucked
from eaves. The inherited
ink and all those necessary
distances and sips – are you
pitching, indecision,
at each faint resuscitation ahead.
***
The pool, not as dark as I’d expected, as
you’d described.
The leaves of paper flake off to reveal,
I’m sure, flight –
Here as we sidle up to bed.
