late when the night has swollen and the edge of the sky is bruised i ll wonder if the scene is cast by accident or by design we will leave our feather lungs as nameless as when we arrived every breath and belly laugh will teach us how to die again each calloused hand and fingertip is a kite string to a morning hour where light will fancy you a friend and greet you with a wink and nod every breath and belly laugh will teach us how to die alone for light will pull her curtains closed and whisper every parting word late when the night has swollen and the edge of the sky is bruised marching with a flag in hand we ll be sending up our final flares