ƒ=λv

I will fold a thousand paper cranes
and throw them to the flock. When they fall
I will whisper in their boneless hollows

those songs I've wished to sing

The wind does not move through me,
only my heart, believer in the decadent
pattern of its own noise. So it's my hope

to cast a snow of song; to drown this out;

the only way to be alone is to be at one
with all the rest; real isolation leaves one with
nothing to echo against. A bird so high that

its song is drawn long and nowhere

low down the bone spiral to the drum
of its own ear; a thrum below the rest; the self
symphonic purring of a deaf-mute cat

in a palace of song. Just one question remains

can I take along ties to the outside, have it
fall in, yet stay right and real? Life shrinks for us
all in time, but I want an engineered explosion

in song, I want to surrender

to control: the kind of lunacy that reins
in the world, that my mind may sing like another
breathing, as if by instinct, straight through

to the artery of all of us at once.