I want to finish with two very different kinds of poems,
both recent.
- First is called The Shuttles.
- Remembering glitter on the first river,
- I begin to imagine the chances against any fabric ever
occurring.
- Threads at last becoming original torn cloth.
- Night, numberless with lights, flying apart in galaxies.
- I reach out to imagine becoming one anything, once.
- Among the chances, in the rare aging fabric
happening, all the way for the first time.