Letter To A Dead Friend About His Drowning
A calmness has settled
upon your heart.
The mossy water fills your tandem
lungs. Three stars pin
the sky spinning around them.
Your wet hair splays out in
a pagan’s crown. Your eyes close.
The birds don’t fly, a fanglehook
tacking back their wings,
a mark the flesh under the feathers
that pins could not have tattooed
more finely, a chart of passages
the glow the moon can sometimes divulge
when the sky spins fully around it.