Sabine Miller

Hand-Wing

pelts the clearing at dusk like a star god's emissary sent to fetch the little fears. Or tucked into herself and the others in some attic corner ... that communal breath transmuted sky. The bat-to-recluse ratio: how many pups per philosopher's stone per winter. Just along this river? Just in this town?

first light—
the gaps
between houses

Spring slips through the attic grate in long leather gloves and a pinch-purse and a beard. Turns so fast she appears to flicker. A perfection of the shortest distance. And accompanied by a music I'd like to hear.

the medicine jar
empty—
May stars