a room with a candle, black space with a fire swaying in it. microscopic
polish of particles the light is swaying against.
who is working. i know the mind. it hovers. it sends a hawk, calls
one. who else. a girl who floods, who's fear, who sees more than she knows,
who's hard to endure.
it's a night whose walls dissolve, a room continuous with night.
a night so granular, so changeable. night with a platform and only that.
a breeze. sometimes a table, sometimes a black dress.
inside the extent of granular night there's color, there are people
in stories of journeys and days.
a woman writing, a girl on the floor. she can't stop her visions,
but they are forming around them both. the woman is writing them. the hawk
partitions them, flies into them, cuts them with its wing. flies above
them cutting a shape for their acts of decision.
how do they go there. at the door they ask for what they want to
be. there is a door. it isn't there after they've entered. it's there when
they intend to leave.
the writer at her table, the schizophrenic girl with arms around
her knees. the hawk flashes down. the writer holds her wrist for him to
land. the schizophrenic girl holds both her palms to the warmth of his
feathers.
it becomes an i, there is only one who sees rides decides
and writes, who's fear and fearless, traveling and still.