i dreamed a boat, filled it with soil,
trees, worms, blackbirds.

i said: let it find its way to the light
in slow, convoluted travels.
one half, we shall call day. the other
night. each equally correct, and
dotted with whatever walks, pedals,
swims. i will not name an end.
let it happen: perhaps it could
grow its own volition. whichever way
the kaleidoscope elects or rejects, each
bright fragment, overlaid or cloisonné,
is beautiful. i love every grass blade
the same. the eater of the grass.
the eater of the eater of the grass.
i make my love a long, repetitive ribbon,
or better yet, a circle, and call it: