Of stars lapping at my beak,
of petals in my wake,
of replacing sound
with music, of skin
in Mhojave heat, of sun-warmed
saffron towels, of
finding two sovereigns
in the seams of my cedar bath,
of a barnacle gasping its first
breath, of a vessel
hauled to dry dock, of
popping sparkled wine,
of rampaging foam, the last
dregs of an old man ground
into sand, of hope's final gleam
in the constellations veiled and
shuttered

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Daedalan, in the year 952 AF.