When you see us swarm-rustle of
wingbeat, collapsed air-your mind
tries to make us one, a common
intelligence, a single spirit un-
tethered. You imagine us merely
searching out the next
vessel, anything
that could contain us, as if the hive
were just another jar. You try
to hold the ending, this
unspooling, make it either
zero or many, lack
or flurry. I was born,
you begin, & already each word
makes you smaller. Look at this field-
Cosmos. Lungwort. Utter each
& break
into a thousand versions of yourself.
You can't tell your stories fast enough.
The answer is not one, but also
not two.
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