Nervous, twigs split, become swallows,
jeté the platinum poring chits
over horizon’s bistered tinge.
Is a murderer secreted in us all,
a person we once knew,
even embraced in a photograph
without premonition? No way
this season knows it is ending.
Instead of “murderer,” let’s say “orphan.”
You’re leaving, you say? Either way,
what to do from now to then,
when language means to stay?