Day 64

I am not a name. I am a fire burning slowly
In the corner of a ravaged lot. I am a broken twig,
a slab of wood stripped
from an abandoned chair, floating
on lightly moving water. I am the final road
of the final neighborhood
before the continent plunges to its end. I
am the rock cliff, the clod of earth
that slips into the sea, dispersing
there; the one star rising
where birds thread a cloth of dark
that blankets current, word, stone.