Ivory cogs snag and scrape
like cuspids spinning on a waterwheel,
unflagging and free.
Page leaves turn and sway,
Beginning the last chapter
Of your quill's liquid heart.
The glassy calm of the pond
knows nothing of unnatural pain --
only ripples of leaves across its still surface;
A spider gliding, silent and hungry;
cracked fingernails raking, raking,
drawing screams from corners of the sun
A secret folding, unfolding
Of paper feathers bound to spines
Like origami cranes,
Smudging ink across window panes,
Revealing the chemical rainbow
Of your multihued chest cavity;
The water hearing nothing of the rain,
just the scraping echo of cogs
as they drag across the sullen night:
The bellwether of your written exodus
From the corridors of divine mystery.