8.15.17

8-9-17

Even when I speak

I ask for silence,

its safety the envolture

of skin and feathers

that exonerates.

Bird calls are given human words

for ease of memory.

“Oh me, oh pretty-pretty me!”

So we can select it out of the void

and know it by voice and plumage.

Silence doesn’t always mean listening,

but lately, at night,

I hear geese.

Something is ready,

like a blister just beneath my skin.