See this—this is the first letter of your first word.
To me, it means running. To you, something else.
This letter means flight:
a bird,
a machine, the timed exit in the middle of the night, the knock on the wall,
the broken lock.
This one is a scar, this one a fresh cut.
This one: a fall into the fire, accidental, and you screamed for hours but
really you’re still a small boy.
This one at the bottom of the page is sweetness.
In the corner, rescue, and below it, history.
The last one is a door, only for you, and behind it
one more, so small you can’t read it, meaning not yet.
So you take it, and pass it on.