a soft is just as sharp as hard is tawny
fragile fingers o'er the premise
of the swelling maze of branches
up on the wind; o'er my sill
the delicious fresh breath
of the lamb of god
who put under the skirt of cobalt
(who now is wearing little
shafts of golden;
little grunts of oblong light
prattling through tufts of
whitish thoughts)
all the air in lungs
teetering past my lips
to feed the choir of blades
'gainst the mooning pallor