The black birds
screamed in my flesh
and took all the words
into the funeral
suit of twilight.

I know I'll find somewhere,
at the end of the night-
one star smiling
at a dead poet.

The illusion came out
of the mirror-
wet my words,
turned them into air,
and blew them far
into the north wind;
which will take them
to the last refuge
of the dying sun.

Death smiles
at my last reflection
of a dream-
on the edge of a nightmare.