And here is the light handing out little favors, caressing your neck like a memory of fishbones. Your birdheart has flown, tired friend, and without its blue memory, its eager brightness trembling with excitement, consumed by anything, anything at all, you begin to sink.
Once more it is raining, reflections momentary and muted. Now any darkness will do. It refuses to yield to morning, floats down on your quiet underwater shore like a sailor’s glass eye, worthless, clouded, an object growing into its surroundings like the bones of some animal growing delicate under the sediment.
And here is the light that carried you along unsuspecting, your quiet eyes reaching for some further brilliance careening into your calm life when long ago, glowing in their own delicate discoveries, they had opened that world for you, if only you had noticed.