—dart—an idea
arcs the cold, then a clutch
of related thoughts;
slim branches don’t even
flicker with the weight
of what’s landed;
animate alphabet
whizzing past our faces,
a black and white hurry,
as if a form of notation
accompanied our walk,
a little ahead of us
and a bit behind. If we
could see their trajectory,
if their trace remained
in the winter air,
what a tunnel they’d figure:
skein of quick vectors
above our heads,
a fierce braid,
improvised, their decisions
—the way one makes poetry
from syntax—unpredictable, resolving
to wild regularity
(thought has to flit
to describe it, speech
has to try that hurry).
A scaffolding,
a kind of argument
about being numerous.
Thread and rethread—alight.
Study. We might be carrying
crumbs. We’re not. I wish.
Their small heads cock,
they lift (no visible effort,
as if flight were the work
of the will only), light,
a bit further along,
and though they’re silent
it seems you could hear
the minute repeating registers
of their attention,
*———, *———, the here you are
yes here you yes.
Pronoun reference unclear.
Who looks at us
—an aerial association
of a dozen subjectivities,
or a singular self
wearing, this snowy afternoon,
twelve pair of wings?
Collectivity of sparks,
sparking collectivity? Say live
resides not inside feathers or skin
but in the whizzing medium.
No third person.
Sharp, clear globe of January,
and we—the fourteen of us—
the thinking taking place.
We is instances of alertness,
grammar help me.
Mind in the ringing day,
a little of us ahead
and a bit behind,
and all that action
barely disturbs the air.