What vessel will be worthy for the flint and bone sediments of you, for the epaulets of loosened then stitched-back skin of you, for the hallways of sinew cleaned now of growth from you? And what boat taps patiently, with no insistence on the time to board or the time to depart? We turn back the clocks as a gesture that means we know winter is coming. Beneath the dying grass, the roots of the next life begin to curl into the storage cells of their survival. Now that you are lighter than you've ever been in years, what arrow of you shot from what crossbow aims at a velvet box housing the diadem you'll become? The smallest leaf falls: it is a shattering in the sky, a fold of water in the many mouths of the bay.
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