Mobile Écriture Automatique

Mobile, Wing, Letter,

the sky tilts sideways today

a mobile taps against the shadow of a cloud

wings made of paper

wings of bird-thoughts

wings that don’t fly but think

letters dangle from strings of forgotten sentences

the R spins like a dog chasing its beginning

the A sleeps in the fold of a gust of wind

the Z slowly sinks,

softer than memory

everything moves without reason

the wind is a typewriter without ribbon

the sun smiles between two parentheses

between what was and what doesn’t yet want to be

the mobile rocks — not a baby, but meaning

sometimes a word falls

and lands on the ground like a seed

no one notices

except the grass

which suddenly thinks “breathe”

the wings beat, but not to move forward

no

to stay in place

to tremble

like thoughts do before they are born

and somewhere, in the middle of nothing,

a voice without a mouth whispers:

meaning is a wind direction