I knew myself a swirl of ash
swept grayly by the wind
like wings, only without the bird,
like kites without their strings.
And I, who have been dead, tonight
I know myself the moon
with rings around it in the dark.
And I the darkness, too.
But I am also not the dark,
not moon, not ash, not kite,
not anything that can be held,
something beyond the lines.
I know myself a spilling thing,
a raveling, a leak.
Call it blessing, call it luck
the vessel as it breaks.