One Cut, A Pair
From this position I am only feathers.
From this position you detach and float downward.
Not east, not against the current. Tell me
I cannot see you. I call to you eight times. You bend,
Chase. From this position leaves part slightly.
The details of your face obscure otherwise
Noise. From this position the flat of my eyes
Another skin I cannot reconcile.
Not the lines, the color, not the proposition
That you and I are the same.
One Cut, A Pair
From here to you is the shortest distance
Not at all a line. The wing of a bird cut
At the tip I remember you. Believe me
When I tell you the bird was red and scraped
Along the street, strolling in light I can
Only describe as lacking direction. From
Here to you is a distance I travel along
A blade, not at all a line. It is the twenty-fifth
Variation of something I cannot place