There must be no talk
Say the rooks in the rookery
Oiled beaks fleecing feathers

We hatch in the ocean of my future
A place uncertain and possible
Strings cast as the crows crowd
Cries like questions at which lines
Might sink or swim in the passing
Of moments that cauterize
Between maybe and now

I am slow sometimes baited breath
Willing myself to stillness
Half-heard stories sing on coal wings