paint the world in green, spiral love on henna bellies, toes;
paint it red and ravage hearts,
a poet sings it either way,
sudden and illuminating all another hue
something less than true if true were known,
something more, i call it when it's poetry,
but who am i, this poem, to judge all poems?
who am i to claim a rightful place, within a poem itself,
to demarcate times with halting rhymes...
how many times have i rhymed rhyme with time?
before it's expressed, it ravels in--in deeper--in the dark,
this glamor symbol syncretism
sometimes urgent, never fully formed
no words can turn within and label when their labels came to being signed--
but here i am, to sign, succumb and sign again at signs