Nesting Fragments: At Dawn, Post-haste

At Dawn, Post-haste

At dawn, post-haste,

The swallow’s cry

Comes swooping from the slanted tiles,

Slings itself about my neck and tells me things I half forget,

After that waking hour.


The squawks do fall

When walking under still night-laden trees,

But with those calls, a call descends;

Some half-heard note of company.


She, a friend from winters past,

Now carelessly thrown up,

Crowds into the day I walk

And teeters on the cusp:


A substance on the gullet creeping

Throatless from the trees at dusk,

Her disembodied cry erupts

To dash itself against me.


Against my eyes she falls once more,

As I look on, and shrink away

From all the gaggled colours there

That spill over the grey.



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