what calls?  this 

alone: 

words hunted to celebrate 

what is simple in life 

which is

almost nothing

a thin line of blood tracked across white paper

the light in cupped hands lifted

from an empty well 

nesting crows 

scramble past our throats

dark draws dark   

throws off a face

chaff in the night wind

a tide comes in

graciously drowns us

withdraws

on some strange shore  each shell

a border

abandoned