Through the voices.

She is a small island
A voiceless twig to flutter
A crecent of moon dropped from beneath-
 the body is resourceful
spun into a river.

Now I am silent as I watch my window
with angular toes amd face
birds so small and distant,
 That is that. That is that.

Bones awaiting the hours to fly by,
And here people like light rays leave
Salt without wrinkle
Ceiling without star.

I am calm. I am sand. I am calm.
It is the calmness that settles, flees and aborts
into miniature beings of discomfort blankets and nap.

A rare yellow minute when the birds die in the womb.