Untitled

There were equivalencies
in the weightlessness of
their lives together. A

black-capped chickadee
perched on the end of a finger was
as nothing as the
perfect molted skin of water bug, of some sort,
affixed to a dock and as
nothing as a
sheaf of paper
on a hot and
dry day slid to the floor and on which
was written

I don't know how to tell you this

the airiness of migrations
back to the locations of their exaltedness

in pictures, in writings, in memories of
songs and smells, in all the
places and ways
love makes a mark

did they exchange
nothing for something

or the other way around.