Last night I became a flock of birds on the eve of their descent.
Last night I was a murder of crows.
To be a murder of crows is to not know
if you are magic or dreaming,
a flask of ring tones or a canvas of teachers
a worship of poets or a cashbox of planets.
I did not know body or the hungering scratch for permission.
I was at once a marriage of galaxies, a shining glory of mistakes,
a lumbering storm of shoelaces,
and a cinema of head turns.
I walked like a torso of regrets heaving a crease of love letters,
written in blue, flowing downstream.
I chose to live as a river of ripped journal pages,
a sprain of tears, spilling
into a spectacle of wringing hands.
In the pitch, I became
a dictionary of guitars, strings taut and out of tune
I had forgotten what a migration of fingertips
feels like on the landscape of the skin,
I had forgotten I am not the strings
but the articulation of sound when they are played,
how forcefully we pour out of our bodies to be formless,
how even in a foreign wrapping,
our bodies break
free of the stilled silence.