Contours of Haze

A bird soars with its white reflection
up a river stream. Birds in the blue
above burst out of a group of five.
Stars explode into dead comet matter.
Flights cross green banks – the reflective
surface meets its edge and ends.
The form becomes a shadow. A dark force
caws. A chorus of crows rises up.
The sound descends against lifting smoke
and the fleeting scent of the wind.
The quiet distance blows in, bashing
a cluster of orange island flowers.
The fire by day is bright. Its hiss kisses
flame lips and shushes soft voices.
Talk resumes as mourners depart.
Tired bodies stay still and for awhile
maintain the vigil. The spirit is seen
safe in glimpses through hot haze.
Light creates mirages. Solidity loses
its permanence. An abstract concept
assimilates into reality. A crown of flesh
melts into tears that drip to the ends
of the eyelashes sticking out of the skull.
The hand feels the face through a medium
of cool water; rejoices in thirst with drink.
At the head of the burning pyre, close enough
to have to squint and blink against the heat,
a man stands ready to be embraced.
We all go like that, he utters serenely.
No, he is shown with an encompassing
gesture, We go like that: birds behind haze.
Contours to the clarity – that is all we are.