william davis

all that light

Blankets and remains

of the breath from pilgrims.

Warmth, I thought assassins

had arrived for every bird.

Silence is a new growth, growling

gently along the elevated limbs.

A bowl shatters in the dishwasher,

deciding that nothing completes

itself or any other.

A mockingbird on a staircase

harping a voice that owns

everything. All that light, winding its

way against the final descent.

An arm’s orbital decay of amen after sleep.