Where threshold dreams its birth, its latter dust,
a little blackbird on the lintel sate;
with orange beak he smote the seasoned wood,
once, twice, then thrice, till hinge and panel heard.
The house stood hushed beneath that measured rite.
I count the poppy seeds along the seam.
Each grain bore sleep, each grain a cinder’s shade.
There hung the thinning veil of only two
brief words, unborn, yet older far than grief,
above the mouth, above the well of breath,
as though all loss had waited in their shape.
Who is here, and who apart?
I count the poppy seeds along the seam.
My tally failed; the boards received the sum.
Then utterance came, slow-kindled in the throat,
through empire, grave, once again through dust;
the blackbird kept his watch where silence bowed
before the door made sentient by our ache.
Who is here, and who apart?
I count the poppy seeds along the seam.
Speech trembled there, yet feared its proper shape.
We wept, and followed through Hell and Heaven’s guise,
where mighty men, with all their pride and strength,
grew pale before the spider, bug, and mouse.
The word stood here; yet we had reached there first,
where blackbird peered and poised his orange beak
before the line that parts the quick from dust.
Who is here, and who apart?
14/04/2026