Ossuary, with Open Window

Dear black-crowned night
heron, dear studded tree, dear love 
dripping with rainwater whose names 
                   we address ambiguously— 

Dear lullaby which underwrites 
the language as well  
         as the dream—

A meteor might fall through the ether,
a vine might yet lose all its leaves 
upon the cold ground 
               but you've buried me

before my death, planted your hoard
of red seeds in my mouth;
                          and now

no one comes to barter 
with a god, no one combs
through wreckage  
                 for the silk

thread of pity— While on the other side,
the world goes on, admiring 
         its own fragments—

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