at the piano, a body primed
for everything to be born again
the fingered promise of return
to that circular meeting
place, where we no longer remember
who we are, nor for whom
we wept. we warm up our wind
whipped hands, the skin gradually
melting into wings, the blood
into forests and rivers.
this is how it starts,
we see the morning from afar
and wait for a face to be drawn for us.