It’s like hearing one bird
measure the regular interval between
unanswered chirps.
Voicing a rapport to pulse
between cold oceans and colder cloud cover,
reverberating like a canyon scream.
Rattling the air, affirming the self.
Crying, avian, shaking
In an otherwise negative space

An agony
she dips her hand in paint
drags it behind her
along an exterior wall
at an even pace
forgetting everything else

Frame it in circles,
motion on motion
singsong now:
Whirl around the wal-king

Washed up. How silly.
How perverse.