Calling
call
owl
sound
flat
pressed
‘gainst my
brain
like the
lid of
pan
not piercing
ear
like the dive
of swallow
compressing
containing
consoling
twining in my flesh
like a woven paper
basket.

I hear death
strand by strand
is a great unraveling
and I wonder has this note
kept me
whole
and I wonder will this be
the last sense
of me
and will it go
back to the wood
where it
began.