into the dying sun
for there will go I
even the sun must, all sons will die
I turn to hope, to retain

the well is running dry
for mother is recalling her precious resource
reclamation to imbue the cosmic womb
with the life of another
death and incubation are stages, gemini
the well runs deep now
the well is running dry
so I will dig deeper
the work is harder, but familiar
hands harden like wood, with age
nails rotten with dirt – under, itches
as long as there is the energy
the breath to drift in
a beating heart within this chest

a raven stands over a puddle
and for a moment
catches a reflection