We live vicariously through these voices —
keeping one eye on the egg of the moon,
poised to wax and hatch the coming year.

Nights like this,
the shards of voices that ring from every quarter
fall quiet.

And we think of all happy endings,
but in silence,
turn away from the golden cup.

We mark time with strings:
woven and knotted and twisted and knitted and spun and electrified and singing and speaking,
a slow fade.

And meantime give voice
to all the always-passing-on bodies of lightness,
always waiting for nights like this —

when the station is closed and quiet,
when all trains are only heard distantly,
when the choir stills its demands,
when the rivers find the confluence,
when all angels lift their wings from our eyes,
when we sleep in the long grass,
when we let it all run away through our hands,
when we forfeit belief and integrate this expansion.





And still


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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