The gray noise of a
bedroom’s ceiling, when
you open your eyes,
right before sunrise.
The lack of sounds ravens make,
flying into what’s to become
that very sunrise, when you tilt
your head towards a window.
The shadow of a second hand
of a wall clock, failing to burden
the time, when you look,
mourning, at your feet:
the black cat is still a shade,
ready to assemble from the old
friend you lost seconds ago.
Now you know.
2019