Listen,
take your call.
You can smell the
musk of a wandering deer.
Retrieve,
the lost soul of
the wounded age. Ravens
are increasing in number, waiting.
The grace,
disappearing fast. The
random silence, in terrible
commotion, remains unheard.
I step outside,
my body, my thoughts,
on flat earth. You touch
a poet\'s dilemma.
On your bones,
lies a small bundle
in white, of the future
child― stillborn.