i stack the sky vertically, holding
space for falling words, but summer
heat traps crooked letters, twisting
type for tiny starlings to feast—pecking
pesky verbs, spitting harsh consonants
onto parched summer grass. he
said ‘imagine that’ and ‘birds like 
nests,’ so i scurry and scrawl every tree,
gathering orphaned lettered pieces of you,
to anchor my pillow as ink-black night 
bleeds with barely a moon. quiet, listen 
to the nothing of my whispering breath
as soft feathers fold the dark—
with a tiny click.

11/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day.