Only in openness, these motes,
revealed in a particular
slant of day,
give up their aureate dance.

Left to the forest’s indiscernible
care, these traces
change and dilate
and an inner eye dehisces
into all the unwitnessing.

How then shall we splay somewhere
on gentle angles
continuing to undo
the elaboration they are enlacing?

(c) Seth Grube