2

The nightjar will float tonight.
Watch his wings give out — the fall of the day.
Endowed, the foragers below
will remove him,
from the boundary.

Reach, and the sky’s reflection
will pick apart at dusk —
over him, a disarming tear —
so strong it persuades all
to wipe the air dry
of the disturbances in the atmosphere.

Imagine finally, we’ll someday hear 
the chase in his call
flying off the sawtooth wave.
He should have deadened now,
my friend — there is nothing left to oscillate.

1

I met a dormancy, inside a sea
it called out, by a shore thirsty
for four nights, when it was deserted,
it wanted me, it attracted me
so I’d stop at the shore—

The first night, I ran out seduced,
the first call, a surprise, from the sea
at the shore, I only had nightclothes
when I dipped into the deep, it willed.
A current twirled me as it went by.
It’d take my weight, it’d make me fly—

The second night, I slid in, wore trunks,
the second call, a bond.
In a newfound flush, my skin, a trust
I could dive deep, we could feel. Together
my feet would kick off the sand—

The third night, I wore only myself,
came before the call.
I dove in, tore the surface,
swam down — the sea felt raw.
I marked my palms in the sand then
any trace I made would wash away—

The fourth night, the tide was gone.
The fourth call, its deafening confession:
the night calls.
I looked into the dusk, and thought
I mistook the sky for the sea,
but it was the truth, at last.
A tsunami hurtling towards me—