Birds fly high and turn;
circles drawn in heaven.
My words they try and yearn
for clear dawn and evening.
I uncurl swirls into worlds.
The motes in my eyes
trace notes in the sky.
I float up and lie,
nebulous and sly.
The unstable I make fable with my labels
What’s it mean?
A sight unseen
ain’t dirt or clean.
Forced through a screen,
the truth we glean
the whole demeaned
and us serene.
My stern attention creates convention.
Is apprehension its own dimension?
Is that mass of tension worth a mention?
Images not there still float in air.
A prow that plows through crowds of clouds,
Her proud bow wows blown past the shrouds.
Turning starboard I dock in port.
Left out of sorts, we drift in Oort.