tonight the world spirals upwards to a shadow of itself. here there is the drawl of the crows and the herald of the magpies; together they mould the space of the night between clouds. it takes the shape that they allow it, the shape that their fingertips and the gaps between them give it, so that now, at the end of this process, it is lumps and fragments, it is ephemeral. floating all the way up there we wonder how it got to be this way, how we forgot the meaning of form, how all we remembered was the light. we forgot all of it, i think, except for this tiny moment, as the sound of your piano rose up against the waves and you carried it forward, a wardrobe, at your back.