Swan song | Autocento of the breakfast table

Swans fly overhead singing goodbye
to we walkers of the earth. You point
to them in formation, you tell me
you are not you. You are the air the swans
walk on as they journey like pilgrims
to a temple in the south. A curtain
there separates me from you, swans
from the air they fly through. I say
that you are no longer the temple,
that you have been through fire
and are now less than ash. You are
a mirror of me, the air without a swan.
Together, we are each other. You
and I have both nothing and everything
at once. We own the world and nothing in it.