I design a world. Truck in tons of cloud--
in a hundred yards your sight fades out,
so life is largely out of view, giving you
time
to evolve the new, gauzed from predators'
gaze.

I get to redefine me, too--within
twin limits curious: that everchomping brain
and sensing auras. Sans bean-counting
mind
or Yeatsian second sight, my two taproot
ways

to navigate, seems I can't be me.
Oh, but size, leg wing fin, feather fur scale skin,
butch or femme, and geekness--pattern-mad
again,
or not this time? All sculptable within the blurred
range

of this species I'm too wary to declare.
Girl this time, I'm clear. But I need a blend
of species; such harmony takes slow care.
I sure
want to avoid a bloody botch like Earth.
Men, brr.