i know a Silence caught
in repetition, teaching itself,
its self across distance.
and this is where i am,
though distance itself is emptied
of me -- cut off from everything.

coaxed by small, swollen flames
into vision -- illumination?
the edges, well lit, lifted high
to suggest the shape
of things but their forms resist
belief in me.

a heart lies in the wings. not yours,
not mine. i lean in, listen to
who's beating -- balancing
the wind beneath their flight,
following it back
to its source.

beginning. some winds roll off
stars, make it all the way here,
re-channel through hills,
through man-made corridors.
they come from the outside.

some winds -- cold -- my own ghost
passing through me in cat-like drafts,
or sharp twists like wrists snapping
free from binding.
their origin, internal and freedom
follows these flight patterns back
to its own prison.