the incessant sound (first mistyped 'wound') of war's wingbeats reverberating through our communication, through all the joining of two points (wingtips touch, propelling flight) armies advancing all technologies of traversal remembered caress over Braille of your face-- a soldier crouched in a trench at night, gently gliding my fingers over combinations of raised dots to read military instructions, passing them to the next soldier to silently convey operations without giving away our positions: night writing next