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

2 Thoughts

  1. There’s something about this poem that reminds me of a feeling I get when I appreciate nature or when I meditate. It’s like one infinite cycling breath of life-death-life-death… It’s life and death both creating and destroying itself throughout eternity and it’s very real to me– more real than normal “reality”. I really love it because of that.

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