from the pens of beaks--

overblown to the flock

of a black bird.

come premature spring

shoots ******* on tufts

of wet snow.

sempiternal archways

reifying sound.

a whole body moving--

before it stops and looks

back beneath different

weather.

a banding host, purely

cut off from the

visitation of wind.

there's a dimly lit carving

station--eleven silver blazes

shy of a disciple.

too abstract for a fine cut of

meat, till a line strands a

dance floor.

it's the sound of birds drowning

in pockets of water--the gossip

of music.

something continues the rise of

an occasion, a reception area of

body languages too angular for

bones.

those that have shown up, resolve

in very private ways--when & how

it is they will make their exit.

before they know it.

those malevolent

mittens of botched blood —

reaching out from the pungent

dusk that paints its

locket of twilight.

neck-deep in childhood…

detached from a mazy

network of breath.

bridging the gap of far gone —

with the intermittent

dress-up of a ghost.

stealing into an abandoned

rusty tool shed, peeled

from the scalp of a

backyard.

filling it with baby jars

of soil — damp with

boyhood touches made dark.

now cursing with the tongues

of worms.

embalming the stillness

of a premature leaving —

an act too solitary to

be re-committed.

grass shaken from dust,

a windup box, a perimeter

of playtime.

now punished by that punctual

occurrence —

with a daily limitlessness.

a sunshower burbles —

as it trades hemispheres

with the opposite side

of a street.

laid out bone-dry,

sped into the sheering turn

of a mountainous cloud.

the washed out curve

of a storm’s prophesied

color — left to unbox its monster.

commanding the ogling eyes

of fish schooling town.

their sloughing motions

opening and closing like

purple umbrellas —

prepared for a far off

land too near the refuse

of fading shelter.

the template of promise,

poring over unmanifest

milk and honey.

silence becoming the culmination

of a mass exodus —

a version of itself long

to roam.

until another version of

itself thoroughly destroys it.

all that would be the aghast

ramification of encounter…

disposed of as neatly as what

was, and then is not.

an unrestored space — where

there is not much to tell.

another purple entelechy

that went on as if

varied.

here is a whole…

that does not oversleep

when sounder than sleep.

resurrections are not singular

events — they can not be,

if death is to be revived

as much as exhausted.

which is that whole,

finally yielding no place —

where a storm’s color

may be prophesied.

gone too — purple entelechies…

gone too — The Purple Entelechy.

a circle is now drawn,

a golden-white

outline of nearnesses.

a round completed at

every turn, emissarial

whispers of angelic phylums

catching fire.

in skies too acoustical for any

church.