A mist is mythic, curvilinear, non-zero.
We lift the shroud of a patrilinear humanity:
messages as much for her, a whirl of stamps,
she was already connected.
Her thought and study had become disposition.
The mist knew.
The myth of storytelling lay on a glass wall.
Many becomes one is old: it is a given
we won’t grant an intercollaboration.
How late this message of peace
through the rhiannon of memory undone by
notions of time. We age into death
and three thousand year later
a mist returns, in-depth.
It’s always a field, a glass house. How negative
is spaciousness, is capacity.
Still a duo persists. Whorf, whorl and woofs
of communication, intent, and the
sanguine stretchability and
pregnancy of language, she becomes.
Traverses like a reine.
Intersperse into the fractal further: is there
a universal feminism?
Can miasma not be boiling; lake
by glass house not theoretical?
A single protagonist defined by what she
birthed into: an instinct
that can be named if only temporal were neural.
Slower with the message of unity; descends
easier a glass of family. Palm for a palm,
nation for a nation,
a story is a mystic traveling: hers were
associations intrepid, whole, still thoroughly
partial. The global was not
leavened by the personal. And yet, connection.