little things enter.

as if led by

the most subtle

of magnetic whiskers

as if led by

tendrils of an electric anenome

or a net or a map

woven

from the glittering fumes of falling stars.

little things enter.

through a dozen or so senses

of my human being

like perfectly carved raindrops

shot through and polished with space

and so delicate they seize

when bursting

and radiant in three hundred and sixty degree 3-D

all of me brilliant and infinite and linear

like the first gasp of creation

or glory

and i respond

like this.

i learn myself, and remember

in this experience, and reaction and it can be

the color of an afternoon in a movie, one bend

in a hum of a note in a song, faces

on people or skies or trees

through my window as i'm driving, or the bloom

and smile of a cat as it breaks into a pouring beam

of freshly laid sunlight, and it can be many other things

too,

and so many other such little things catch

sliding around the curves and the pause

on the crest of a moment, and then

i respond

like this.