Is losing the spark
of language, concretion that
connects thoughts to sound

a simple step that
inches so carefully that
we feel no motion

but an absence at
stopping, or is expression
transfigured, growing

into something more
delicate and harder to
capture? Once I had

words like colors or
subtle impressions, changing
like notes of music,

fast enough to sketch
my feelings mid-flight. Now I
have only the wings.