You and I are not dead yet,
I think I know it,
I know you do.
I see you in the minutiae
of the stars.

its all the same
from way down here,
a grand perception, a vision
of you at sunset flickering
without your flame.

Your call to arms is
a boy cries wolf.
I mold you into art
from nuts and bolts.

In conflict
you catch my eye
and then you’re gone.
Your coming is inconsistent,
different colors, different shades,
you're more than one.

I cannot ascertain the
direction from which they come,
left or right, above, below, I don't know
I only know when they come
when all of them come

all of you

you are more than one when all of you come

all of you