When (if it might be possible to find time in a meadow) you were a hummingbird, I looked for you. Inscriptions of a relation, will its particulars move your hand? I saw the least melancholy part of you as it changed into something else. The limit we are resisting is like the heart’s seaweed. When the migration of crows is possible, it is natural to untangle our regrets. A flight threaded with questions, and loons. You break the unconscious in me. Natural to intercept all the birds that can be touched. How you expose parts of yourself through projection, flight. Once a voice is embedded, the unconscious breaks you. It looks like something with wings. If (when the possibilities scatter in the evening) you look something like a bird, I will not touch your wings.