wind blades rip open the seams on my hands and tear tissue deep to a place in my chest. blood and mucus pour from the rupture and glisten like honey.
what I knew might be wrong.
a flock of geese bursting from my skull where a young man kisses my brain. his hands are not ruptured and the fingers find themselves alone in my belly —they make a nest and stay there.
but in the impermanence of staying I find a constant question. constant movement in no direction. stillness of summer rituals. this is a place I love but love is without language and words bring me safety.
