Substrate

A long time afraid of the filigree of light, what you imagine to be the wing of a bird cleaving your face, air on your eyes before you can shut them. It's the only thing you see. It's the kind of wick you cannot lick your fingers to put out. --- the filigree / of light

The sky is open all the way. whose irrepressible birds can’t believe their luck this morning

To uncoil the wild little everything inside lungs throbbed by its own wings