This is it,now, a shape cut in time.
It's a tracer line from the year dot
moving on from its first form: a pulse,
a curl in fluid, continuous creation
lightning sketched, a steady course
that cannot be charted or rolled
in fire then beaten out of us.
We follow its order with a smile,
a double-take, something in the eyes.
It ripples like the bars of a mackerel sky,
dissolves sun into ice, shore into tide.
We cannot break the code however hard we try.
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