Listen,
take your call.
You can smell the
musk of a wandering deer.

Retrieve,
the lost soul of
the wounded age. Ravens
are increasing in number, waiting.

The grace,
disappearing fast. The
random silence, in terrible
commotion, remains unheard.

I step outside,
my body, my thoughts,
on flat earth. You touch
a poet's dilemma.

On your bones,
lies a small bundle
in white, of the future
child― stillborn.