now that iâm free to be myself, who am i?
canât fly, canât run, and see how slowly i walk.
well, i think, i can read books.
âwhatâs that youâre doing?â the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
i close the book.
well, i can write down words, like these, softly.
âwhatâs that youâre doing?â whispers the wind, pausing in a heap just outside the window.
give me a little time, i say back to its staring, silver face. it doesnât happen all of a sudden, you know.
âdoesnât it?â says the wind, and breaks open, releasing distillation of blue iris.
and my heart panics not to be, as i long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.