The crows are constant scrawls
There above fields of dandelions
Pushing up, yellow, indecipherable,
Swaying in the wind of starlings’ wings.
Sometimes at evening a raven calls
At the edge of the bonefield sky
Eroding till the first quarter of moon
Protudes, a jawbone broken loose.
The stars, too, begin to show through,
Splintered bits of ribs and joints,
Scrimshawed remnants of gods,
The scattered shatterings of belief.
Those goddamned old suns, dead,
But winking and nodding still through
Tattered shrouds of gas and dust
Woven from elements of older stars
That, down here, become salt water
Troughs, green, darkening with evening
While wind and tide beat the crests
Into long strips, frothing, egg-white
Against shores we walked together
And apart, our voices harmonizing
Sometimes with water on sand,
Sometimes with the shrieking gulls.
But, whether or not the moon ever
Finds us again tangled and gasping,
Liquid in its light, we’ll fall to pieces,
Give our incoherent atoms to new stars.