The Nightjar | Rowan Ricardo Phillips
The nightjar carries it lightlyBut the world’s heavy as a lamp in a gale.I watched it move through the olives and the hush,Over rooftops, stones, and cragged hills,Unclenched as it glistens in the gloam,Indifferent, sonorous, and true. As I write, a fly has drownedIn my jar of pungent lit wax,Its carcass still dancing from its thrashIn the melt pool. A galaxy of smoke spirals from the wick,Rearranging itself, then unspoolingOut and over the valley’s scruff of lavender and tobacco To resume its argument with the birdAbout death. And once moreThe bird wins by saying nothing,Which is inevitable and enough. Source link


