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She’s nearing stone, dirt-dried hair.
The bird in her chest a bankrupt
conductor, improvising. A lunar
river seeks to collect her, garnishes
grass banks with murk. Tonquin Mountain
sharpens its trap, there is no escape
from this one song, a collection
of end notes, a crawl space of spirals
performing the passage to sleep.
Diana S. Adams is author of Hello Ice, Theaters of the Tongue, and Cave Vitae.
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