Of These Eight Pieces You Can Only Choose One

Islands fold into birds.
An origami ritual coinciding with the moon.

Too quick we search, when we need to sit
and rest. Deciding what next to consume,
when we should be sleeping.

I split, like a seed, but I do not bloom.
I have no need for flowering.
I am the lone needle on a pine.

Things that are not noticed;
do you know that I breathe?

Swiftly we scratch at surfaces, dig
to find our gods and altars.
What can we place before greatness besides ourselves?

Windows, turn inward,
slip into the skins of wolves.

The visions prowl forward, in packs
stomping their atoms into the earth.

I still cling to a single branch.
When I fall, I’ll at last be home.
Myself a piece of death.

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