There is No Translation for the Body at Night
There is no translation for the body at night. The crow’s chest drops

as it calls from the wet grass. Sometimes the dead make a nest

of us. Sometimes the dead are still living, sealing envelopes

with thread inside. Wouldn’t you burn if you followed

the old way home? I mean to say I keep finding parts of bone

on the riverbanks that worry me into a collector. I keep & bleach

the already violent thing. And beside me, the water shifts 

like a body in the night. Memory—a crease in the ceiling

growing the dark. Dancing all those years ago, I learned how

to land softly, body caught quiet after dropping through the air.

This is how I deceive you. Water folds over itself no matter—no

matter. Wing held against the ribcage collapsed like a child 
in her crib, hands over her ears. There is no translation
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