III. Blank Paper

it was a
Wednesday
in
late
November

I woke
to the silence
of
paper
falling

it poured down
and swooped up

a billow of whiteness
sailing with
such
ease
that
above me

I could feel
the blue sphere
relax
its
shoulders

somewhere
there are others
who
are falling

off
and
outside
the
line

their breath
speaking
infinity
on
blank
pages

on placards empty
and
full

in Urumqi
they bow to the
past
on a
beautiful pasture

and tremble

before
the
future

perhaps they know

an expanse
cannot
be tamed

a future
cannot
be charted

a mystery
has
no
slogan

with them
I think

we
can
peel back

the metal

with them
I think

we
will
bend new old shapes

into this world

soft

like a feather