Given my propensity towards dying,
my voice with equal force unheard,
I must believe I am alive long enough
to see it.
Suppose the soul remembers what
it dreamt or roses leave their imprint
on the sky or wolves ingest the carcass
of the egret, feathers lying on the ground.
I'm not opposed to resurrection, how
the worm constructs its glass-winged ride.
Be sure that I am working on a blueprint
to leave a copy of my love.