arrives like a serrated wing.
Cuts the medium on which it is inscribed.
Cuts the fabric of the real.
Arrives in the walled absence where the self is not.
Cuts the costume of the self off a mannequin of air.
Cuts the white light of a voice into unwound strips of color.
Arrives in a red, in a desert-shaped room.
Aboard the absence of a train.
Aboard a column of air that bores through the bedrock of the city.
Aboard a flock of inverted birds.
Birds that migrate underground.
The poem leaves in you a flock of bird-shaped holes.

Robert McKay
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