It’s all in my head, I tell myself,
or perhaps in the mind, as if the mind
were a singular thing. It’s more like
a muster of black birds that rise
from the field in a cluster before dispersing.
No. A thought presents itself in tides—
wave after wave of wild wings,
stilling, unfurling, gathering light.
I consider how an idea curls
beside the body in bed—
how it enters slowly, then all at once.
And then leaves. And the breath cannot
catch up. It is not in the head. It is not.
Nor is it all in the heart. Not in the breath.
Not in the eyes. But every part.