When you see us swarm — rustle of



wingbeat, collapsed air — your mind

tries to make us one, a common



intelligence, a single spirit un-

tethered. You imagine us merely

searching out the next



vessel, anything



that could contain us, as if the hive

were just another jar. You try



to hold the ending, this

unspooling, make it either



zero or many, lack



or flurry. I was born,

you begin, & already each word

makes you smaller. Look at this field —



Cosmos. Lungwort. Utter each

& break



into a thousand versions of yourself.



You can't tell your stories fast enough.

The answer is not one, but also



not two.