throat

where is the end of a thought
or a word     or a life     these things
that taper into silence     the mouth
of a bell to a pinpoint in which
all vibration ends     a still and singular
node     there are no dead birds
just several gray feathers
in the grass     limbs are
admonished this vacancy
as each and muted tree is not
a song but simply     a perch
upon which song is erected
misread as joy or madness
as neither vitriol or locus
but simply     simply a string
a breath     a bow     this wind
heinous as whisper     as if
a word were not     a trail
narrowed     a crack unlikely
as unlikely     as a footing stone
marks its own slim passage
ant-wise and fragrant     a life
still     as a throat     that chews
its own sweet marrow

Image: Ashwini Chaudhary on Unsplash