The feather that fled from a crow before the pellet clippedthe heart.
The perfectly perforated air between bow and violin strings.
The 5:58 a.m. shift from mourning firmament to acceptance vapors.
The return envelopes sent with bills that couldn’t be paid.
The photograph of a man checking his Corinthian watch—forever 7:17.
The fine lines of smiles that can’t be remembered or what brought them about.
The petals of a Gilwood Violet, bookmarking the pages waiting for a return.
The scribbling of a man presenting his empty pockets.
The breath still waiting to cleave beauty from pain.