“…it’s like…”

 

A sourceless voice,

mild as spring,

spare as winter.

 

“…scattering breadcrumbs…”

 

They appear in hand,

tiny, pale fragments,

brittle as stars.

 

“…in a graveyard.”

 

The landscape shifts,

the monuments resolve –

tall, dome-shouldered,

indecipherable.

 

 

— C.Birde, 9/4/18