Born into a beehive of clarity, bedtime and endtime
Are like the laugh inside a shotgun barrel,
The space of air between undoing the holy and tucking desire
Into itself until it is not so.
But it was. And what once was
Is. Some still look to the sky for the next curse—
Not that it matters what or how or when, but this act
Covers up the curse of watching for what will never fall.
A heron appears to fall.
Slight rip of light, the valley where salt water pools,
The bird in the grass, wings stretched, tiny eclipse
Of feathers and bones. Perhaps the curse has taken
On a bird-like form. Grubs dance in the dirt. An empty
Birdbath waits in the twig-colored night.