From ‘on a species of bird that doesn’t fly away’

how can we prepare to set off, or can we rely on the routes already written, the maps already drawn, endlessly picturing the road ahead. last night, we walked into suspended moments, when a lost bird drifted around the house, we listened to the breath of the outside sigh in time to the hammock sway, a few moments of silence gathered in the chest, and I couldn’t breathe, the tangled images, my fingers in your hair, sometimes they tell me they are the silt in dried-up riverbeds from years ago, remembering nameless water weeds, and that nostalgia brought them here, diving into your hair as you wash it in the afternoons, in the corner of the red brick yard, sometimes they sing along with the stream, nearly inviting a step towards the sea, the direction of the vast, I reply there is vastness in every direction, wait, don’t distract me from this small bird’s flight, I am watching it find its way out, but it keeps flapping its wings around the summit of the mosquito net that covers my father […]