He bowed his head into a coffin
 and a yellow fluid ran from his mouth 
onto the floor. 

pretend that you live near a stream
and the water of that stream makes strangers fall asleep
and when they sleep, they are vulnerable

pretend that your blood is wanted and you’re running
you always wanted to be on the run, 
because fear frees flightless birds

pretend you are young
pretend you have romance on your side
we could go sledding if you weren’t cold,
we could go skating if you weren’t cold,
we could do anything but you’re fading 

 My neighbor has not played clarinet for weeks—there were no sounds, there was no music. A drought of music. A curse of lingering, stagnation, with no sign—no promise—just the emptiness like a blank, opaque circle—and I was at the center of it--
Until today. I can breathe again—finally free from the weighted responsibility of suspense. Momentarily. 
The swan has returned.