Blame Jupiter, its brightest moons. Blame the scapular ache, a cry I store in my wing—where my wing would be. No reason, of course, for blame but: blame the mask I buzz. I’ve been at myself, fingers pruned and smelling of lemon, of sweet moss, late twilight and banked ember. I stoke my own tinder, make fire of what’s left. Don’t call it dream but prophecy: an astronomer’s eye taking time for distance. Each constellation a bird drawn by an amateur: seagull. Seagull. A cry that carries over the water. Oh, I whisper your name when I’m close. Look, I say, look. I become the shortest distance between two points: seagull, seagull, horizon. I misspoke, earlier, said fire instead of fountain, drought instead of deluge. Once, I was a mask, made a mess of your face. Would do it again, be worn, but for a distance so great it becomes time. How long before a gull arrives in the desert, parched, aching, blown off course? Oh, it was meant for sea, would settle for river, as you were meant for me though we settle for time, for time, soon its wake, soon collapse. Look, I say into your mouth, your ear, not near but soon. I fill the room, a cloud scudding the moon, fingers glinting in a light of my own making.