Jacq Marie Babb
howl-less hollows—
trees more alive in their silence than I.
I burn in skins like cages.
in all my darkness, my eyes will always find the light.
shadows stretch into five fine lines
to hold silken notes of a starry ode
though leaves speak only when the world and I sigh,
knowing more than they would ever care to know:
tired young and quickly old.
Grow. Fly. Decompose.
Rise.
I’ll climb—
kiss the boughs, bowing beneath my meager size:
secrets and secrets and secrets between the night and I,
a cold and lonely home,
and then fire, fierce and terrified—
my eyes will always find the light,
if I myself must ignite.
Clamor 