What does the cuttlefish
grasp
about water?
What do those
winging crows behold
in the air?
Or the wind—for her
part, does she hear
her own singing?
age
and regret,
the way day
bends to night,
the encroachment
of shadow—
what words
do I expect
to ferment
from the experience?
Of inchoate,
relentless,
illiterate fear—what
could anyone know?
