I spent the whole day
crying and writing, until
they became the same,

as when the planet covers the sun
with all its might and still
I can see it; or when one dead

body gives its heart
to a name on a list. A match.
A light. Sailing a signal

flare behind me for another to find.
A scratch on the page
is a supernatural act, one twisting

fire out of water, blood out of stone.
We can read us. We are not alone.