"Until a man is dead, he is not yet done being created.”--David Diop, At Night All Blood is Black
That your life tenses as the throat of a wolf, long ago wintered from the wind,
The color of lost bodies in the color of your eyes,
Do you not taste the silhouette wading far into the sea, shore break and loss, as he goes
And
Even in the dark recesses of the bramble and cave, light spiders in and allows the moon to thread
A silver'd path, outward and your limbs breathing
As you carve constellations into the chest of the sky
And there you are waking
And the tenderness of the stars falls away
