on things you float around.
The way your soft touch
is a fell blow;
a whispering needle
in the hummingbird's haystack nest.
But isn't it always
the pea-sized thing?
Now I won't go
trying to lasso the fog.
See how it pools
over the lake; the quiet surround
of the blackbird's favorite
fingers to land on:
cattails that point to the sky.
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