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