Year: 
2017

We sing in the branches,
The birds of night, born brittle
In broken words and melancholic memes,
As holy as the body in a dream
 
Woven in, set upon a tree,
Old and scorned, played out like a fiddle
With worn out strings, a holy see
That’s thrown upon the body in a dream
 
Windows open and close down here—
We listen with fear but cannot hear
And feel we’re being seen
In silence as the body in a dream
 
Until, at last, the knock that rocks the door,
With words that whisper no more—
Ancient and wise, torn at the seams,
And set upon the body in a dream

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