there is always,
yet sometimes, the light reclining
on air.

this is the gesture where
the music is born.

a twist of a shadow
unfurls like the first touch of
autumn's hand to pry open
the flowers precisely without hunger yet out of effulgent kindness. this matutinal flowering
    is dislimned by the pressing question of a quotidian sun -

  without reason of imagination,
  these words burst out of
   the silence like blood through
   the steel vein of the world struck with a hoard of lightning
    as the following of rain in
  fusillade extinguished the waters
   reduced to sound - no reprisals invoked.

   it all begins like this,
   with only love glancing
   through windowless homes,
   searching to find inhabitants:
    these intruder words
    sleeping, awakened, now stir
   madly in the dark to make
      light through and through.