The accident has made of me your old bike, beloved &         only ride, gear shifts unsteady, occasional tension spoke requiring realignment, night lighting, bell clear

Claim this feather call, colloid of song. If cackle were caw or whistle a taunt; if strutting had a sound, if pleading a peep. Listen.

Roughly translated, it means a smoke pot, burning red like gold. Then many ways to say greatness and forgiveness, witness as a goat is sacrificed

For those who take our midnight calls who cry who seek our voice in the dark who imagine who create who connect who listen who

The youngest know. They know boot crunch from tank whir, missile whistle from rocket whine. They can count seconds to boom and brazen light bursts,

Vowels in the trickle of a fountain, chasing mosquitoes over a fake pond: ‘A’, ‘E’, ‘AA’, ‘EE’, ‘EI’, ‘IJ’, ‘UI’… Bueno. De nuevo. The low

We were black and white girls with backyard passages so we              wouldn’t have to go around the block and knock, wouldn’t alert our brothers or

If butterflies could claw deep, draw blood, not just light and flutter, then they would be our conversations, our not touching, anchors as winds steal

A machine detecting dye, the parrypadding into the room where he lies,wordless, feet stilled and arms bound.His glasses have been removed, his pockets emptied.  A

Snow,not the kind that heralds frozen waterways,an eleven-city race on skates, but a changeon the cheek, a white sky smile.Slow mist and snow, gulls glissade