We considered ourselves. We read about us.
We read more of us. We ripped and copied
And carried a considerable variety of us
Out into the sun and spread ourselves out
On the sandy bank. Considering all we had
Of examples of all we were, we decided we
Were only of interest to ourselves two ways,
At least as us, not as the story arrow shot
Through the guts of us. First, was heft,
The cumulative power of masses of us when
Driving toward one inescapable conclusion.
Second, there was surprise, the apt surprise.
We squinted in the winter sun, we, the many,
Multiplying crows feet of us sinking in sand.
The river sank below its banks. It was best,
We decided, to gather our fragments together,
Our damp impressions, our scratched hides,
Our linens, our acidic leaves and sheafs,
And ball it all up. Ball it all up and hope
Our sodden weight held together as we crashed
Into the invisible water and did not dissolve,
A surprise that would make up for our lack
Of little surprising staircases built within ourselves.
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