Nothing is On the Wire

The bird is on the wire. I watch it. Not with my eyes. With my soul. I am its stuttered surveys, it’s tremulous balancing. I feel the wind on its eye, the shuffling of its feathercoat in the breeze. I see myself seeing it seeing, from the wire, across the street. My tail is my balance. And then I am gone, again. Further. I am all the things. And the space. I am the atmosphere. Colors ground the balances. A fullness too empty to be containment. Impossible. Playful. Gone. The ways of all betweens as a way of disappearance. Gone. Vaped. No other; no shore. Departure into arrival’s exquisite departures. Gate Nada. Now boarding.