It is more

Starlings setting flight,
your voice is an echo

We don’t know terrain like oceans,
don’t recognise borders

Except those of fingers
the bridge of hands

wrinkles which dip with memory,
know no other co-ordinates

other than smile,
touch,

we speak backwards
through the static of radio

we need no installation

the crackle of wings
is enough to set us free

through the sky
that reflects the sea

holds the moon as silver concrete
a sidewalk is a lake

it is more.