They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Draft | Barbara Claire Freeman

No different from the collective

hurtling past suns, one

at the end, another at the junction,

a third implying anthems insufficiently

arranged, as if in a haze of leaves

a door within the forest shut.

People whisper. A people’s music

whispers, an obsolescence emptier

than melody. “Together we

see this skeleton displayed like an X?”

Yes, these were their teeth, some notes.