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.
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.