When you see us swarm — rustle of wingbeat, collapsed air — your mind tries to make us one, a common intelligence, a single spirit un- tethered. You imagine us merely searching out the next vessel, anything that could contain us, as if the hive were just another jar. You try to hold the ending, this unspooling, make it either zero or many, lack or flurry. I was born, you begin, & already each word makes you smaller. Look at this field — Cosmos. Lungwort. Utter each & break into a thousand versions of yourself. You can't tell your stories fast enough. The answer is not one, but also not two.
From Blind Huber, Copyright © 2002 by Nick Flynn. Used by permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota. All rights reserved. www.graywolfpress.org