FALL

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.