I tried to imitate
a jackdaw cawing through the murk,
a whispered squawk into the tremendous atramentous.
I read to search;
in reading I find, I find the old melodies;
those weary songs, winding words into an ever-vaster void.
I write to call, to dig
my heels desperately
into loamy flesh and caustic water,
my voice. My voice.
I haven’t yet found
the moon wafting above the water, I found
the foggy path to you is
fraught. Frightfully teetering, a taut
rope strung along our eggshell skulls,
and now you’re falling out
of the inky night, and my heels,
with a squelch, come undone. Undone
from meaning and I recognize
the echoes from my sulcusine canyons.
From these I extrapolate my intractable lines,
and my humming words flit across the mud
and into the gloom.
words without music,
black wings beat rhythmlessly
against my limp back.