head. nothing will go wrong
The hawk drifts through an empty room and wonders at the brightness of walls containing it. There is an open door but no patience to follow. Two black windows stare at this evasion, the blurring of wings and dangerous claws. Concepts taped to the walls like insects. Disordered stacks of books and papers are mountains from this bird's eye. The approach, trapped and panicked, strewing feathers across the floor in its thrushing.
And yet we know that nothing will go wrong here. The desk is controlled chaos, ideas are bred here; the wildness is contained. My mind is a treacherous place, and yet I find refuge there. Solitude is a caged bird that flies circles in an empty room, past the open door, missing what is entirely unconcealed. Windows are for looking in, not looking out. A glass of water finds the moon. The light is fake and forced. The whiteness is blinding. I fly as if the room is vast as sky, bruising my wings.