ALL THE A’S

All the a’s, the blurs, the we’s, the articles indefinite, a specificity or stuttered plot. If you turn toward the green—the bole, the leaf, the stem—how it fuses the breezes whose transparent tongues are part of the bell’s white notes and all they open. Were it noon—but it isn’t, it’s pallid meager one, we paint the sole peal on the hand’s tender inner. Elsewhere the night is oppressing our distant kin, inversion that is radial and saturate and turns eyelids an actual amber, as the dark’s wings demand that fragile canvas for its nest. And tears keep seeping, liquid, lucid, tongue-shaped, ornamental, in the mind-slipped interval, that silver suspension where you curl like a pebble in its raised and graven skull. Midnight’s meticulous writing—few can read it, fewer view its reflection in dawn’s sallow puddles or dew-lipped rivulets equivocating rue. Purple flower, cerulean wooing, clamorous fuchsia and alabaster spool, this floral machinery hums, sweeps, and dyes the pathways, in orient wheels of cambric and quick. Worlds bloom, and the light-flower, in bright-edged and windy minutes. Taint, hurt and shirring. A stemmed emendation. Or tide-light roaring. You are not my whom.