it is now and we are awake
24 hours a day, the years a-trembling
tear in our panscopic eye
we cannot sleep until we feed again
there are crops, resins, fibres, boats,
chorales to be tended. To finger weave
and bind cause to event, motion to shadow;
our dangled finger tips write stories on
the surface of any medium, the harp
our palimpsest, angels’ feathers plucked
to make nibbed pens.

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