11.

The mirror closed its eyes
to remember that I vanished.
I’m an age-worn stone,
in mid-air, headed towards
a glass ceiling.

If a tree falls in a forest,
remember that it was me.
The feathers faint,
the flowers fold
& the dyadic communication

between the wild wuthering gusts
of Soul & Spirit
is like the summer-night songs
of Whippoorwills flaring outward
through my pores.