how would i know claw or feather(myself or myself). there's me only and also me. like claw sharply or feather downy.
me and me also. that's what i am like. both neither or either.
i again return myself to hands of thoughts and returning again i arrive and look on them.
and they are wonder.
meekest starting; hulking ending. they begin and they rush. they end and they abey.
not so nearly as a frond, more like a leaf, just new and trembling on his mothers arm.
i dance and i am collected.
i repose and i am disheveled. i am cluttered with words mostly. they collude like
grass fresh in springs nicest wetness on early mornings(they gleam and enamel
me). my stuff and my
artifice. they are the magic of person, of which i count myself amongst, and am
counted by. i squish their numbers and margins between my toes when i walk
on balmy summer nights
through soakness caking through my shirt. the dew of god's breath enamors.
and pleases the senses. such aromas(which waltz from buds opened in the silverset
moonlight)confuse
and collide me. i like how they smell. they are richest and fullest health. on the breeze
they mingle and bumble perfectly. they arrive and taunt me. i stand by lakes(wreathed in them)
and i would eat them
as soon as smell them. stem and berry. loch and grove. these things are innumerable(and terribly
few). how do i reckon them against me? but just bones and flesh i wonder on their bodies.
i note them and i bring
them into me and place them in my soul. they, like sleep, are posies and fancies gorgeous.
i ramble and i elicit. i trundle and i fathom. i look on people and i see them busy and
infinite. they progress
and urge. they collect and they divide. like oceans. each's a droplet and a whole.
they make me and i make them. i know me by them. and how shall i any other way?
and them by me
they know themselves. we are bound and seamless. i lilt and i think on them.
sometimes foolish i think. other times i'm so in wonder at each infinite self i nearly tumble
out myself.
and where does the truth lie? both of course. nothing was ever one thing. except for exactly
what it is. except for when it's not. then it is another thing. which is exactly what it is again.
i think and sing.
but i'm not knowing. i've never been. i just flit and prattle(i am the wind; i touching nothing
leave no trace).