The figure x shows a deepening sky.
A map of peerage.

A dying star pulses, and is resolved.

Who is righteous overmuch.  There were
plenty of years. Was said to be tractable,
if the tractability condition was fulfilled.

A little blood, in the ocean.

One can make out, in black, the escorts
of a pilgrim caravan. Then the faithful.
Then the moment when the road brightens
and takes flight.

The wind of this world, our turning.

Little baron, spreading, softening.

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This poem is an assemblage of very large and very small things, and I suppose conveys a feeling, as when looking at maps, of being in the sky.