through stories and details a dark bird keeps moving.
it never lands. it doesn’t look down
where landforms hang the slow rocking horizon.
the bird doesn’t search for seeds
or take water into its thick feathers.

in this world of suspense, matte black and a field of lights are kept in proportion. a dark bird is a tangent aimed towards vanishing, the point where what’s perceptible merges into what’s not. by this unimaginable magnet, muscle memory is sweet dream, texture and fatigue flatten into a plane of suspended tension—and the bird can close its eyes in flight

because its wings keep motion. as wings are oars
thoughts sink in a slow river. lungs fill
just as easy when the air is thick like sleep.
if a dark bird were to fall, it would mean an ocean.

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