I've been so many herds

we're a crescent sun.

We're birds hard to know in gusts

of thunder

casting off in riverbanks of skies

we're pastel tall grasses

for no coast of unwoven aurorae.

Are we th'ol' blood-dyed flock of what

it like to be ol'? Or are we Saturn's quill

itself? Unf-

old-

ing us into smoke etching

up steep glass?

Our shapes list through a feather-
transfor-
ming bead curtain...:

...There ahead I glance a self in ourselves' past

also

and again

wrapped on star-pulled chyme of swaying scenes

cooled in their roles,

coiled to trinkets on bruised threads, brushing

faces and hands, all frames, in a soothing,

unsettling tangerine flutter.

...Through each glass drop's timeline wave

a tiny silk woodblock engraver descends

hooray! who are we on this thread!

from unleafed crown to wreck a shin na!l
!ng
spinning iterating questions of a
branch down, down, through, through, throughout, through,
from the blocked heaven
of a doorframe
to the footh!llscape of each moment, one uncertainty in bra!d:

Was that me?

Were these ray dem!s!ng experts us?