We’re cut loose 
in a loss
& lost to what we bind
what we’re bound by: 
goldenrods & hues of dirt, dad’s prayer shawl 
enumerating its threads & our hours
night’s goodbyes & lies, blemishes in the sky.
We’re feathers failing to fall
falling to scratch it out, to re-catch 
that first latch in the mouth 
Abba:
broad-shouldered bellow of a knight at night
silver tufts wooly with what was.
Day asks to ask again
what can be said in the end 
of all our saying 
but a brief but 
bends the air 
to bewail but 
Abba: 
worded like a fist 
in the suckling mouth
mouthful of milk
mouthful of mourning 
mouthful of death 
mouthful of dad’s prayers.
It’s all the same 
lit dark 
white reflections of what binds
what we’re bound by.
To light one thing 
is to burn another.