You draw your knees up
There is a wind outside
Clouds kicked past a drowning moon

The floorboards have splinters
To wonder at

The fridge clicks into a hum

You are oddly empty of words now
There is no ear that wants them
No tongue left to speak
And your hand
Shakes so

There is a smell of burning paper
And a cry
Almost in the wind’s hold
From the unchild

This is the arc of your learning
Skirt lap sodden
Your hair afraid

Hawk against the moon unnatural
Hawk circling
Hawk hard against the panes

Burning paper
Branding stone

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