Under loss’s leaking roof,
Wildfire loss and dark matter loss keep 
a simple home. Most people
come there by answering

wildfire’s irrefusable invitation
in the dusty po box
next to the expiration notice
sooner or later.

Once there however the
umbrous displacement
rocking in the chair,
straightening a small
grey feather may begin
in the voice of all strangers
and all pavement 
to speak. You who are here

in our simple skin of all roofs
and leaks, hear if you’d like
that most loss never gets
named touched or seen.

It is just not is,
Kin if you blink
to never even was.

The two billion birds
in thirty years
whose hollow flute bones
finished their long 
lightening into 
lighter than whisper passage
can’t be missed.

As dark matter tells you this
Wildfire places an open palm
on the back of your neck
and helps you to bow
your head. You leave

eyes washing trails of
leaf litter cracking
until the city.

On the pavement
grey bird feather between
parked cars not now 
growling over all of
feather not dropped,
of can’t be missed.