(Whisper)

Some twilights 

open,

only breath and heaving. 

Belongings? Withered air. 

Tucked inside.

Cherish the smallest of sounds, even 

twirled hair.

Angels never demand to be heard. 

They are so small

And light: wandering

To be free.

(Every huff is precious. 

Listen close. With threads of snow

I listen close.)

Walls are silent and parenthetical, 

This love is meant to be spoken!

Every meaning to be spoken, even secrets and hushed howls and

Gnarled hair and crispy f***s 

Held for a moment or two in suspended

air.