At the intersection of insomnias

There are wild swans
that shape forests and lakes

tiptoeing that offers interlude 

to birdsong and conversation-drip

from leaf and sky,

a kalagediya and solitude;

there's a knife being cut by heart

words that are overtaken by words

a stumbling more firm

than stride and stop sign;

and tonight

as cut-glass and blood 

sack-cloth humility

and the crossing of ash

a Franciscan at your door

arrived

to wait

for the collapse of centuries

and the proscription of words.