The nightjar carries it lightly
But 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 drowned
In my jar of pungent lit wax,
Its carcass still dancing from its thrash
In the melt pool.

A galaxy of smoke spirals from the wick,
Rearranging itself, then unspooling
Out and over the valley’s scruff of lavender and tobacco

To resume its argument with the bird
About death. And once more
The bird wins by saying nothing,
Which is inevitable and enough.