A little bit of moonlight here-I-am
as breath surpasses finger count.
That which is positive
grows me;
that which is negative
grows me.
In attempts to remain level,
we remain level;

I am the red roofed house you can see
from this hilltop; half sequestered
in scattered trees I don’t know
how much I want to be seen but know
I stand apart. Painted on purpose.
Holy matrimony with intentional starkness.

I am also a pine needle
on a forest of pine needles in a forest
of pine trees in a land of eternal Christmas.
The wind tosses me pieces of myself
which I cannot tell
from the Self I think I might be.

Nothing applies to me and everything applies to me;
I am the ocean Herself.
And the boat.
And the octopus, inky and blotting
submarine intelligence.

Of all that I am, I lose count;
equally in love with boundarylessness
as with clamped mortality–

as with the pine needles caught in my magnet hair.
I do not pluck them out.
They shall remain with me until
both of us fade.


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