Focus Problem

A point resists dothood.

Feathers paint with wind
and ask which flap is
now's hedgerow.

Confidence pens scratch 
the corneas they follow.

One story, ready to tell,
for a single narrator,
relayed in an individual instant.

Are you my purpose?

Singular and plural are not opposites;
multiplicity ate a thing
and metabolized its self.

Shall I shatter into dust
such that I am a cloud
whose particles indivisible
fit a solitary name?

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