On Method -- Mary Margaret Sloan

Over blackened stones, embedded glitter, terms of
rough ascent vanish in conclusion. Predicting,
now we see it, how our touch instructs, heated, shaken, streams and swarms in the integral domain

dishevel the chemical moment. Across a plain in violent storms
feverish migrations pile up, a flood of grasses, leaves, trees.
Devoted, reclusive to our senses, the stylus drags
across the surface; hammer home the nanopoint
with no need of place, a range merely

discarding what it touches; model succeeds image,
passing through each possible is and isn't
set speculation to exhaust the universe. Watching is
watching over, devotion to faint stars, counting on; a flight of steps.