On the Subject of Transformation

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.