yesterday trusts its still pause in time

placing its hand in the hand of a static that lasted

longer than the blades of grass shadowing

calloused toes and a violent windlessness.

my fingertips still smell like smoke as

I turn pages of lined paper across a wooden

landscape—desk—

I can’t help but be distracted by windowpanes

and reminded of a raven who

just this morning

refused to tell me any truths.