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.