Preparation for the Impending

             A scritch in the eaves, in the dark
of earliest morning; the tumble of a soft
body I imagine has slipped from a tree—
Whatever it is bounds away across
our shingles. Though I strain to hear,
there don't seem to be any sounds
issuing from a throat, desperate
to loft signals for help into the air.
I tense for them, despite: signs
of a body already in transit, oblivious to light
lifting in the canopy. The bulb
of an ankle, purple-streaked, swelling
with fluid. Walls hardened around organs
that float, islands in a sea of carnelian flowers.
The crown of a weed is its own miniature
sun of reckoning. As for us, we're helpless, pinned
against the fabric, faces upturned. If only
we could hear the sound the soul makes escaping; where
it slips from this net into the unbroken.


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