from Portraits of Imaginary Poets

Millions of years go by.

What remains has been worn

to a single brittle string

that otherworldly bird plucks

to weave its nest

of inscrutable notes.

            So the legend goes—

            no one has ever seen it.

But the unwise, the shattered,

the hubristic, those riddled

with depths of need

still swear, year on year,

they have heard the bird’s song—

chaotic, unrepeatable, sublime.

            So the legend holds, the nest

            holds, the string never-ending—

            millions of years go by.

Tonight, into the unsuspecting ear

of a woman sound asleep,

a low hum shivers and curls.

In the morning the woman will wake

and wander into the woods

with unvoiceable tales on her tongue.

            Lost songs live on

            inside the lost,

            so the legend goes.

            Millions of years go by.