As recognition calls
her butterflies myriad light
makes paths to your face again every
face you've made framed by math's stored flogging until
you here were kept by every there who captured all your hope in their passing
light rescaled
in numbers stamped for files that will crash,
backed up by zero
buildings and zero guards and zero
red cords for tourists, like ourselves,
passing faces like loggers predated nomads and white men herds.
Counting rumbling light in the heated shores
of sleeping day worn calling butter
flight's snooze within a seal that's breaking loose its numbers'
lids, its rims, greaseless pantry cooling
passing fire God's remembrance.