Untitled (Op. 31)

let the secrets written in goose’s down

speak softly in my ear

and tell me of worlds that are yet to be

staining the silver hutch of my mind

with a dream dark as silk and soft as wine

crying

crying

crying still, until

crack

the sky breaks open like a shell

and the yolk of the harvest moon

runs down the ragged edge of the poplar tree

for foxes to lap up the fat

and badgers to suckle on the richness

pooling over feathered banks

and the latticed cattails of home

until i wake

tear-stained goose’s down

telling me that if i leapt

i would fly