For a moment I must dream
to the sound of my own
To the seeing passing through
that grains of laughter
Dressing us up like puppets
of sameness
We are volunteers
to the grinding stone
To a golden thread
Thin as a pencil stick
in the world laid bare
With just the right gesture
done this way
the impulse that lives here
Comes,
with the breath of the world
To see if we add up
to the pounding of the four corners