in memory of RVN
There's an ache inside the shadow of waking; every morning I pretend to be new. Cracks in the window catch sunlight, threaten the glass, and in the meantime, love begs to be glued to the heart. The heart, a hole created by disappearance, a distance the length of here to Heaven. I'm no belief, no teacher in the art of becoming; I've left these seasons to themselves. Hope fails to blanket the field. There's something to be said for winter's way of creating silence in the white woods. Here, I speak to you as if my voice lifts itself, an answer to loneliness we create in our sleep. I'm not sleeping. I'm not who you thought I was; it takes time to accept the definitions of flight: you fly through the air. You're a bird, flighting. If I imagine you, a homecoming the saints attend. The saints, and their desire to illuminate that which has gone dark; no star bright enough, the sky's strength keeps what's become the beautiful-lost.