born on the black sea

our air is thin and if the blue recedes
we'll have silver and a fine bed of pine needles
our toes folding paper
cranes swans and crickets

here, we push holes into the lime
and springs follow
scratching our nails into the softening clay
aware of ourselves through our fingers
what we discover becomes us

once our poem crumbles
how then the last words inspire our thoughts
all bones and crumpled foolscap
carried away by ants