The Birds Make Up My Hands

The birds make up my hands.

You can’t see my hands.

My hands are invisible.

But not the birds.

They have kept their feathers.

They have kept their language.

But stopped using words.

Words are all I have.

Now that the birds are gone.

Escaped into the outlines of wings.

The bone structure of silence.

5 thoughts on “The Birds Make Up My Hands

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