One little less of me —
a hand, an awe, a feather falling free.
one little much an eye; one too little, still more
to be.
One too little of what I am; a little too much to count on,
to look ahead for few is to drift into the me left behind
what lies — folds into lies, the seasons breaking over,
wave after wave, falling further and further still
into the blues and yellows.
Lay more weight on the softness of this steel,
and what’s heavy may finally break into bloom
for there is little in what lies — less and still
more than me.
The one carried further by the wind in our ears
yells just a little longer and just a little more
then blows — and is blown — a sigh of silver.
One little too less is a little much more —
But enough.
Enough for a little much of me.
To be less.
Still, one refuses to linger on the pearl he once was,
the one who found the tickless clocks, the blown castles,
the dusty libraries, the hollow wood
with a little much, a little too near, a little too far —
a little too you.
One is a little less moth, a little more mariposa.
One is what was told, and one — little much seen, little much sought — beginning.
One was what will be, and one will be the last.
One is not me but
I am me —
a little less, a little more.
