silence
but for my poppa’s clock
now set to spring
climbing up
climbing out of myself
burrowing into an unidentifiable comfort
present most times of the day
though imperceivable during the dour hours of dreams
such concentration
exhaling any hesitation to trust myself
come the stroke of light
birds
good morning untitled
what happens now save every voicemail not that his tone would have been forgotten but to hear him call me tweety as many times as