I know how to be measured;

to wait on heft and placement,

ignore the counterweight and ballast,

be ever-measured and value marked.

I curl into myself and am quiet. No shuffling.

I know the rudeness of

clumsy science, the invasive

fumbling of the keeper’s glove,

measuring my sky with awkward earth.

Detach. Face up.

The lists and numbers.

Adding up and running down.

Names they would give us (their one daring),

reduction of us, shriek and talon.

Their arrogance is their sorrow

and as we would thrust up and arc, they can only account.

Try not to resist, but focus

and hold in the eye the echo’s source,

a tickless measure.

I will be free and far and

know not this docility and small meaning.

My wings will push down on the great nothing and

I will rise and wheel and

my concerns will be scriptless again.

Speak to them in their own tongue, but leave them,

for behold, they are become script

and their days shall end as books.

It is we who measure

and pirouette above, with the

persistence of a memory, redolent of the meaning

their spadework beggars.

The winds will blow them into quietus.

So be it.

But enough.

From here I see far and what I see, sees me.

I read my cries with my throat

and know things truly, as they have passed.

If pressed to augury, then sparingly:

If I am night, then I will be day again, and

if I am day, I will once more be night.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.