Have not written a single
word today, for you.
As if I was fishing
without a line.

Mixing the precursors
on the hills to invite the
mustard moon, for a?
dance with kingfishers.

There was no grief, no
scars. My hands becoming
empty. Parrots are gone.
There was no speech, no goodbyes.

The book is blank. Un?
printed pages. Nothing more
to be said. Only a smoke
tracing a face inside a face.