Last Songs
What do they sing,
the last birds coasting down the twilight,
banking across woods filled with darkness,
their frayed wings curved on the world
like a lover's arms which form,
night after night,
in sleep,
an irremediable absence?
Silence. Ashes in the grate.
Whatever it is that keeps us from heaven,
sloth,
wrath,
greed,
fear,
could we only reinvent it on earth as song.
GALWAY KINNELL
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