Passerine ghost, cedar waxwing  on

the branch that grazes the moon,  

​

still as the night, I see you  

beneath me, mouth full of stars.

 

If my wings were a pen, perhaps  I’d

guide you out of the constellations.  

​

Or if they were a shadow,  

I’d cloak you within me.  

​

But all I can offer now  

is my birdsong  

​

to oxbow time into a dream,  

the ocean, your cerastes cradle,  

​

rocking you inchmeal  

as though into a lullaby.  

​

You — now as still  

as the wind,  

​

​

saline.