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To see poetry in a dying world

that is the art

of bringing something to life

that never disappeared but just disappeared

to read your beautiful sigh

to read your sigh as a question

and make diary words your figure

hear myself say

you meet you

and at the bottom discover

a bicycle's rattle like a long echo of cobblestones

a desolate sigh so gifted its umbrella

cradling as the day reaches out

as the day reaches out cradling

a green, happy thread

and the early and completely natural

hair's faint morning glow

my day filled with twilight

random movements

that keep feeling

like sewn wounds

that gasp for breath

I, a fool, begin to guess

I am lifted like an egg

out of my head

lifted here where I begin

here where it ends.