Eternity cannot be known
the way life wants to know it, the way
wind with its eight voices speaks ghost, holy
and otherwise, as it blows through the Crow’s eye
in search of an abandoned farmhouse.
Eternity settles as dust in rooms
where wind lives, a dust that also accumulates in us
over time. A sheet of rain flaps
on a frayed laundry line. The front door dangles
on one hinge, the roof gone.
The birds stole it.