Heaven fills its choirs death by death.
Our rim of dawn is their upturned bowl
filled with the hunger of birds.

Lifted, the fingertips match left to right,
a hinge from which the palms fold down,
to imprison song—as if it really were a bird,
a mockingbird, afraid.

The body's box unlatched-—the soul springs up
pinching itself to see if it is real.
Missing the ineptitude of flesh,
the disbelief.

                           Instead, the great dimensions:
distance, height and depth—
persistent, pure. Compelling
accuracy from weightless lips.

When the throat opens—
what we once called a throat—a memory of trees—
assurance. A petition to the dark to shake
flight into stunned wings. A true assumption—
an argument of strengths—
a grief.