After news
of the travel ban,

I begin to knit
a garment the color

of lichen, the color
of moss steeped

in clear mountain
streams. I hope

to never finish,
to nightly unravel.

I think I know
who it is for

but as long as there
remain obstacles

to its delivery,
perhaps the pigeons

will sleep with heads
bent beneath one wing,

perhaps the spirits
will continue their

restless hovering: not
finding a ledge eager

to give up its warmth, a
shell not hardened to quartz.


In response to Via Negativa: Thread.

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