*

You feed these birds at night

the way every feather they use

comes from a quarry where the air

darkens with each landing –it’s Tuesday

and you still have not forgotten

their return for seeds, endlessly

weeping for a missing child

a brother, mother though their eyes

are unsure how to close

when listening for a name, a flower

a river –you fill your hand from a bag

as if at the bottom they could hear

an emptiness that is not a night

falling behind step by step on the ground

–how open it was, already grass.

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