14 03 2009

i don’t remember how to coax them into striking, paper, keys, skin-to-bleed; so many surfaces arc up to meet them, yearning for the marks, but the birds inside of me, with all their thousand voices, have pulled back somewhere, another concentric layer deeper in and buffered by the silence in between. i can hear them, always, single trills and dizzying cacophonies, and see, sometimes the thick, black currents of their swirling movement through the trees, other times a stillness like the forest’s made of paper and the dusty, warm swells of their bodies are its only inky fruit. the songs are in my eyes, but there’s nothing in my hands to build from, and all i can do is follow sunlight, turn my face up, and seek the red static that drowns them out; at least it’s loud enough to be a reason, and as the signals cross and resistors fuse the blindness temporarily absolves me for another hourweekyear of empty pages

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