A dreamed-of tern feathered bright tin,
With feet of forks and spoons, and eyes
Of rapidly blinking buttons
Flapping in a nacreous sky . . .
So briefly, yet half-remembered.
Is it different than sand hill cranes
Flying tight skeins, or tiny birds
Fighting at your feeder, insane,
Almost: hungry, or is it greed?
All is constructed by what feeds
The integers of counting we’s,
Assembled — one, one — instantly,
As we try to comprehend dreams —
And all else— as more than just seen.
