I showed up on your porch a wreckage of rainwater,
buzzing, alive, a fallen hive empty-nested and outward.
I showed up on your porch a colony of winds,
an inward exhale, thinking:


there are days when there's a crow in the way—
feathers // leaves—
and it speaks of going home,
of cradling the dust & the month of moths.


It speaks of you,
the cornerless room,
your name lingering in the air
like old shoes left in an atrium.