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.