If death had a color it would be this afternoon’s sky

relentless greys, the promise of snow and no escape

the stale taste of an attic shadow.  

                                                               All of my dreams

are free to be silent, even the echoes are empty—no

voices or conversations, no sounds of the mad birds

smashing themselves again and again into the glass.

*

From this height the distances ought to seem closer

but at this age failing eyesight hides what is out there.

There is the light coming through, through the gloom

a light from out there, from outside you, beyond you.