when I go

I hope I go

with a lance of lightning

in the heart…

and two crows—

one on the rim of each eye—

tearing at the fabric and

lapping at the pools

and strands and silk

of all my dreams and all that I’ve seen—

that the stilled heart’s beat

may be broadcast 

just a little longer,

from the top

of a momentary

jaggedly lit

bare 

high 

tree.

March ‘21