Birds without song might fly
on languid currents
whipped into life
by their own impetus.
A desire to
continue moving
through a room without walls.
A room marked out
by the stagnant weight
of its atmosphere.
The seemingly endless
nothing
closing in with
a presence found
only within the abstract.
A solidity created
first in the lungs.
The cramped panic
of finding yourself
in the belly of a snake.
Swallowed whole.