birds of passage

birds of passage are we here. absolutely newcomers to this mother tongue of skin boiling. birds of passage here we are. the same bird as absolute nothing and non-nothing, perhaps off coast, always nearing the extreme secrecy without knowing more than skin boiling towards more temperature so much before nothing and non-nothing absolutely. birds of passage are we here desiring every instant of One and None, always tongue boiling of silence as if the primal foam of Cosmos in here, my mouth inventing your passage from skin to skin. per chance, mastering the flow of one tear and a half. as if birds bleed beyond being this substance still to sing overnight in here. our wings have feathers of so far a spring. No Name names It, my moon imploding, if you stay overnight in this river or wind where we are of passage, just birds, the same bird of skin or fresh dust of skin, trembling as if the Necessity, the urgency strikes furiously against all Desire off lips. uneasy flight, uneasy perching are we of birds, passage.   
whether you cry or sing, you alone are Never and Ever the passage of birds  heading so much from skin to skin fully collapsing into non-nothing: a beam of light weaving blood to vein. Love is this labor.