like a cobra floats above its own gravity to give a poison—to threaten with swaying—being between thresholds or some,
gentle as a cloud will rise when there is no warmth and so wanting nothing—hold truth like wet sand cradles a jellyfish, letting it roll a little in the tide—like this, more immune to pain like the stars and their dust were that
left rivers in a thumb once, swirling too hotly—and i spin, too, leaving no evidence though i feel like fire—just elastic—same a cloud grows too heavy but always ready to let go, falls
somewhere lighter when the warmth is just enough—
and being of the world and of the stars both, a person leaves no indelible mark—even when like a thunderstorm, breaks— pushing orange leaves from branches and
lets the new leaves in—or with a light rain keeps little faces from withering—to just feel the wind for a time—the gravity that let form its own dream—i dream and wonder if it wonders, too.
In Due Proportion 