Stretch mud flats on a December day,
Sponge them with bright water
Into rivulets, pools, liquid lineations;

Between mud and fluid
Feel the thrill of possibility;

To this add downward pencil strokes
Ten, thirty,
Quicksilver quarter-inch dashes
Twenty, sixty,
Limber,
That glide, swoop
As a single pixellated dragon.

Are our atoms these birds,
Joyfully gleaming,
Articulating a future
So instant, ten thousand
Have flashed by already?

Are we such a syzygy of stars light?


kj4dec08