As clear as a door closing,
our silence listens
to the afternoon decompose
into grains of broken time.

We act to separate ourselves
from ourselves
without waste or necessity.
All warnings fall
like leaves
into water,
and the weather makes it
impossible to hang on
in a life where dreams
live forever.

My exile stiffens
into cold shapes
held by the fingertips
of the wind.
Forgetting the way home,
your voice sings
into the open road
like a delicate thread
seeking the eye of a needle.