Ready

These stares will
melt your lips for
simulating the silence. Don’t
do it

—the sharps are curled and thin, the
language between the space cannot whisper
what has occurred—

and these hands: most are hidden for the reason, upon hiding, the crow spoke dream into the moment’s allegory for leaving

—this home has old hands,
alabaster cool clarity: you are
not allowed within, and its shadow
runs to birth safety behind the trees’
contemporary conceal.