Phrases that just yesterday
conjured paradise for me
now thud at my feet.

Their form is perfect in syntax,
spelling and letter shape,
like time-arrested relics.

These graceful birds that once
flew so effortlessly in formation,
now lie lifeless before me.

Their feathers are stiff and dull,
Open beaks gape helplessly,
A milky eye stares at nothing.

A restless fascination attracts me
to pick over the anatomy
of their carcasses.

I find a phrase as lovely
as a seashell,
and as empty.

With automatic hope
I hold it to my ear,
but the sea is silent.

Leave me here, picking over
my hollow treasures;
they're all I have.