Is a grounded group of birds a flock,

still, or is their recognition based

on leaving lakes behind? Is a toast

a prayer to drink, a prayer a toast to God?

I know as I sit here that somewhere there dies a boy

in a street, his mouth filling up with leaves.

I know when I leave here my blood will transform a cup 

in the mouths of my friends. I know I’ll never know

quite how or when to say goodbye,

but hope it’s known, in general, that I wanted to.

Towards the end of vast and massy chains

I am, I think, responsible for dim

and spacious griefs. Forgive me. Cancel Christmas

if it helps, swap my soul (goodbye) for thine.