the grief that we cradle in between our two windows
june 2024

from water to water there are still dreamlands on our earth. I saw them in a painting by Heba held fast by a quiet sky save for her songbirds in an elation unending. ours is a silken empty that only proves itself useful in pointing to something true, and breathless we will betray our selves and tongues from all their dim and wretched silences to the echoing of lost songbirds I've only once heard in a painting