about the space between us, wingspan
and range. The way our room closes in
on a word unsaid. Watching birds fall
in and out of formation, I think I found
our infrastructure: what little touching occurs
during flights through the ceiling. The birds
don’t speak, keeping distance and speed
over crumbling roofs. There’s no simple symmetry.
Like a cat’s cradle, tangled
between them. Maybe the wind
is behind us this time. Look at my hand,
dancing outside the window.
It’s an awkward bird. A small arm’s length.