All these
moons I’ve
painted that
bring no light–

the sun,
the stars,
the sky,

they can
not see
that I am
standing still.

These things
I dream are
dreamed for
someone else–

the bitter fruit,
the barren tree,
the songless bird
are all for me.

I wear them well
around my neck
until I cannot breathe–

I will not stay to
see them leave.

Who reads this
poem cannot
know me–
I didn’t bury
birds they
buried me.