We are shrapnel.
We are constructed, the controlled ingredients
of our haphazard oblivion,
the wires of burning marionettes,
the discipline of terror. We are embedded
into the sky,
the dazzling apathy
of foregone conclusions
melting away in the spring of our loins.
I saw a girl, once, picking up seashells
to the hum
of birds who knew their time had been,
and I watched her gather their feathers
and make a crown.
That was as close to the sky
as she’d ever be.