wind gust, blood

and thorn.

upturned umbrellas.

many over--rose

bushes angling

for rain.

foremost faces.

livid with the loss

of color, having

become season-wise.

red at war with wilt,

a painless once.

an unimaginably

excruciating twice,

all in the span of a

color.

this kind of

music trips over

a series of chords.

while hurling toward

a horizonal tie in...

disseminates aerials into

grander crosses.

eyed down the aisle

of a moon, eyed down

the aisle of a sun.

to expose birth signs in

the rondure of plain sight.

insuppressible.

concentric rings around

a rosie, tiny magicians with

pockets full of posies.

rattling in a birdcage, dancing away

between bars--teal blue

hats and cloaks, overlaid with

icy yellow stars.

broom-beards wisped down to

their feet, apercus gloaming.

scroll mustiness of aslant starlight--

shuffling space dust divining an Age.

sawdust

can see every

revolution of

a chainsaw.

predisposed

to a knife leaving

its mark on an

open country.

unable to lie about

seeing something

spit about like

wooded water.

catching the windless

fire of ether.

please overstand,

that your aftershocks

will take a Heart.

combing over your

coldest grooves.

long after they've

been pronounced

by her music.

eyelashes

suture

their

singulated

eye.

periodically

broken

open

for a lifetime.

a

rundown of

blood.

stolen away on

dissimilar skin.

I've might've

seen a dust

kicked up in

such a way...

that

its desert  floats

on water.

finding the walk

on that water too prosaic.

these beaded chandeliers

of a very hard

rain pop out the

twinkle of a color

from branches.

stolen from the riches

of a Queen, handed

back with both hands.

as threads stream

across a fetching

web...unburdened

by dreams as flies

nose in.

leaves are softening

their handprints from

a forgotten fall.

juice climbs a tree

with no sound on it.

no skeleton is craven

while held up to a

season.

as rain is unhatched,

startling roofs with

a knock that partook

in what came before

sound.

I lie none the wiser...

to an imploding

aquarium.

a neatly contained

flood in another

tongue.

the muscle memory of

bed sheets are starving

to death.

they keep being pulled

off of their own accord--

one night at a time.

they receive adjustments.

unhousable adjustments.

worshipping a structure

so far from home.

direction remade from

directionlessness.

encompassed memory

devoid of bone.

there are ways in which

things are happening...

that should round off to

another sphere.

an: O of breath.

blown by a crystallized

little girl...

with a rattling halo

settling like a soundless

coin.

watching that rounded off

sphere bubble clear off

her freedom-land.

shaping up to her wish.

let alone--

a pebble

to pray

to

the

rock

of

a

mountain.

coming in

and out

of an Ocean

rain.

the first drop is

always too slow

to quench itself.

which's why the

last drop has to fall

somewhere.

purple is

the oral history

of our undissolved

sacrament.

my Mother told me

more gently than herself...

what it took to get me here.

in her inimitable way.

trees stuck at attention...

falling all over a horizon.

there was a lightness

moved so violently that

it refused to speak to

no one.

an unexpected guest

blissed-out her son,

unbeknownst to her.

what a liar has been unmade.

the metallic grooves of a

guitar...picked away to morning

sickness.

swelling to a cello.

bees dying face-first on snow.

flowers mastering magicians.

tapering off the right color.

if a black hole

were a dial,

and your favorite

station...played

your favorite song.

helping your hand to it.

until you couldn't

take it anymore.

take it some more.

then the record will

not skip.

precisely at dawn

she worked out

her oranges around

this chest.

spelling color differently.

angulation on a heaving

plane.

dancing through

a window, elated

to rest there.

it was so striking

that I had to look...

all there was, was

the wonder of how

she got there.

the metric of her

genius exceeds

himself.

there's no grappling

with a poet in residence.

how many times can

you wake up is not

a question.

the art

of

a

point

not

remote

from its

circle.

can draw

a flawless

circle.

freehand.

duplication is

rotten, it goes

bad when left

out.

an unkempt

temple cleaned

for food.

just now,

spring lie

on her serrated

side--

on winter's bed.

he's fast asleep...

she's looking him

over, thinking:

you haven't killed me

yet you ****.

i will not be survived

by.

You know you

ought to join

them, but you

leave them to

their study.

such brilliant

deductions walk

off bodies.

centering their

conclusions.

a crumpled napkin

slides across a table.

a golden calf fattens

on a cloudy day.

a propped up flower

reads a Chinese vase

fluently.

so much so, the mountain

it depicts is no longer

woven around villagers

that seek enlightenment.

unconditional as clouds

beaten to wool.

in this welling's

music--seas remain

unparted, there's

no flailing in water's

drowning.

multitudinal calms

have washed over

the look of every

consideration.

fitting perfectly on

distant shores.

the silver

interments in

a bolt of lightning

smoke out a blind

divide.

unstruck between

split eyes that

crack open quicker

than once.

the

silhouette

of

A

bonsai tree...

offers almost

no answer to

its form through

paper-thin panels.

holiness dies up

to itself.

a whole miracle.

a stone

surrounded

by a desert.

is the shape

of wrath

incurred.

the clacking

mouth of a

prophet broken

open.

there is a tree narrow

enough for a wood.

to reap a snow around

indefinition.

the trunk of Her ankle.

holed-up white, with

wind and cessation.

incontrovertible water.

though it appears so.

white.

as impressions shorten their form,

an owl leaves daylight suddenly.

flattening its wings over an Ocean,

all-ways light.

alighting at your window, one

motion free from stillness.

so You can hear the sound contradicted

by the customariness of nothing fathomed.

there's something that worries over

an owl that resurrects daylight on a

crooked limb.

the speed of acceptance deemed late.

the owl was there once...

leaving out everything.

And would you know it?

an owl's downcurved beak smiled

back...reappearing.

falling down lifelessly over branches

that redrew the most vehement disappearances.