The figure x shows a deepening sky.
A dying star pulses, and is resolved.
Who is righteous overmuch. There were
A little blood, in the ocean.
One can make out, in black, the escorts
The wind of this world, our turning.
Little baron, spreading, softening.
This poem is an assemblage of very large and very small things, and I suppose conveys a feeling, as when looking at maps, of being in the sky.