(after "The Feathered Cloud," Armando Valero)
Before the change came a moment
of intense attention. The dark
had not yet fallen. The horizon
still glowed blue and gold;
stalks of grass had not yet
been hewn to stubble. Looking
around, I could still gain
the sense of prelude and chapter,
a faint moon hovering like a cloudy
coin over an insinuation of water.
I thought, foolishly, one needed
only to observe certain types
of decorum. Straight spine; eyes
clear, not yet milky with doubt
and distortion. Fingers imbued
with a sense of intention.
So let me tell you: when the air
thrashes with wings and your inner
ear fills with whispers, listen
before they too vanish in silence.