Balloons as a base

Sieves clatter clogged
not yet with rust
but bits of food,
fragments of ideas
that will not wash
away. Not yet with rust

the day dawns dinghy
with a million more flecks
of dust, a myriad
of tiny memes hung up on each other
like real thoughts
to bring back into the earth
what was born there.

Sieves clatter clogged,
again before the rust
of generations breaks down
all things to base shapes
excited by chemicals,
dull matters for the stars.

The day dawns dinghy
with words, endless thoughts
dissecting each other,
sand rolling down an incline
towards stabler ground.

One day all things fall enough to one
side or the other through
intricate associations.
Metadata, the truth of things
writ large on a long scroll,
beauty encoded from reach,
everything parsed factual.
Whims hang tagged behind a password:

we people
with our brief histories
who think ourselves
worth remembering.

—

All that is vast
remains on the shore.
Hands spread as far,
a body pressed to the wind
will not hold enough of it
to measure anything.