a junco eyes me from a slip of pine

and blue glass sings
in my palm, the sky engraved
with vowel and wing, so
much to hear, our bodies
speaking across great plains
of air. soon beneath
moons, we’ll murmur
something: me, on love
as a rift of stars, of broken
pieces i once thought
the earth waves past.
and this little junco? nothing
i could guess to know.

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