Unassisted Flight of Dogs

My head is fixed like a skipping track on the image of a mouth without words.
I should be doing math homework, or, at the very least, writing something half productive--but I have no words when I'm thinking of mouths without words. There is speaking, still; always speakingmumblingmoving. But there are no words; words as in units, words as things to be defined. I have escaped the sharp of definition, just this once, just for now, at least, and I will enjoy it to the ends of my fingertips. And I don't know how to do math homework when I can't even look my fingers in the eyes; they're thinking of wordless mouths, too.

I laugh after I lie--I'm very bad at lying.
I laugh when I am uncomfortable.
I laugh when I am too comfortable--when I realize I am running away with something.

I am a soaring dog; I don't know what is seen of me, but there is more; there are imperfections in my flight, ragged-tipped pinions and some other things and such--again, I'm terribly distracted from words tonight. But that does not alter or extinguish the fact that, for a moment, I may be very close to what is seen of me: a soaring dog with no tangible means of flight. No definition; I will not define. I often want to, but for some reason, that inclination is now pressing its belly low against the dirt. It is sleeping. It sleeps at night; I do not. I do not have to. I do not want to. I will not say that I am two different people at night and day--I do not think anyone is that cleanly divisible. But I am very fond of shadows, and the part of me that is fond of shadows is easily lured out by them--and the other, which has spent a whole day doing math homework and all such fussy business, is all to happy to sleep and let the other press against its wordless shadows.