Dear reader, I’m sorry to tell you most things are
already dead. & you & I have been much too
syllabic in our believing. Didn’t you know? Even
the stars startle themselves. Tonight—this brief
dictionary of light. Truth as it comes through in strong
blinks of blue. Understand this: everything in this    
reality is meant to be habitual. In the distance
lies so many trees you cannot see. Listen—
those loons. Critical, apparitional. Captioning the sky
with echoing. I’m sorry they say you are always eligible
for an omen. Understand: I’m not telling you
you will die soon. Only that I have pieced the moon
into its whole & uncanny self. Every moment—
a new danger grips to the reddening of dawn.