You shouted my name at the mountains and they shouted it back, this you told me. I
imagined you doing this, your golden freckles hidden under warm clothes, in a colder
place, your golden freckles coalescing on the peaks of your pale shoulders. I think of it
when I crush white peppercorns, I think of it when I lose my breath in bigwater sleep and
wake up spinning in a murmuration of gasps. Some birds are scavengers, you know.
Some birds want your eyes only after you’ve died, an easy pluck, a blue roadside fiction
kinged in the dreamtime. Some nasty birds want your sleekboy underbelly, rabbit-soft,
mulched under by pilgrim moans, forever white and inert. No need to sorry back the