I rise, not moving. There is no width to these spaces now. Everything is an opening. Everything careens. There is no such thing as heart or tongue. If I make a simple step here it becomes a small cage, rolling back into other cages, a large misshapen body of slots and bars. There is nothing to put inside it or me. Instead, I wait here, where the branches above the water are black shawls, all pointing the same way, threadbare and deliberate. There are no angels to speak of here. If there are any, anywhere, they are not winged people, raging stallions. They are simply pieces of different animals, collected, suspended in midair, galloping into a distance that never really was a distance, galloping until there is nothing left of them but the sound of birds being born underwater, the sound of the wind dreaming of stillness, the stillness dreaming of me.
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