All night there was an echoing on the concrete.

The city birds. Their spirits bouncing.

There was a ticking, lapping dog

on the wall.

There was a bead of sunlight on the bed,

a mark for death.

Out in the woods,

there a light, warm spring breeze;

the slow,

rainbow exsanguination,

that

purpled the grass.

I write them here to recall them to my senses,

for

I’m never ever again trading in goodbyes.