This the time, the race, the hour
the sun high and clouds blow
as if the blue vault were forever limitless,
and all thought fuses 
to a thinning line, the razor-edge of reach
and all things in-between grow dim, become 
what we cannot put our fingers on,
vague yet densely formed they roll us
onto skeins that will not fade
but I resist that trawl, that netting catch to rule, 
I will not yet be enthralled,
I want to feel the water rise, endure
the cold sea surge, the whiplash wind, 
experience the height the width the depth of heart
encompassing all suffering and ecstasy.
I will not yet be threaded 
on that spool 
to be quietly wound in stasis
with my energy entwined 
and my mouth in-bound to bliss,
I refuse.
I want to race the grains that spill, 
touch the sky, love and love, and feel 
and try and care and be 
so large I cannot fit my skin, 
always be begin again and squash 
all weakness down - 
to live every whim
to be a beacon's flash 
to prove my life worthy 
of its breath and flame - I will
expand to scour the sky, feel
the burn of heaven's air, outstare
the seeing eye, exceed
my reach, exceed
my grasp,
until I deflate and recede, 
a tide 
withdrawing from the sand 
having reached
its highest watermark.
When I diminish and I dim,
then and only then,
will I comply 
by winding quietly on.
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