Close

Another Extinction

Taylor Franson-Thiel | Poetry

Death makes names songless.  
We lose a warbler in November and  
December holds the silence.  
Under a full moon a shock of lichen  
writhes and we press  
our fingerprints into its growth.  
We look through blue forest  
into its parking lot, loud  
as the birds that used to sing.  
The forest is silent.  
Death hears only death— 
who names us.