Migration

There is nothing now
but the liquid and mist and
the dark points of reference
their songs carrying a sharper edge
that my eye can see – half
my brain sleeps and is still
in the fuzz of black belonging
oily comfort deep warmth – half
mind like a cage around my heart
which beats with small, scratching
claws around the thin haze of dream
loose as birch bark blue
blue and black

 

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