Sounds like a miner’s melody. Or a gemstone set in platinum.
A set of blonde and imbricated petals. The perplexing swish
of botany’s haste. A season originates, then gratifies and ends.
Sounds like so many things that happen as beyond.
Now entering. Solve all arboreal problems that you can.
Then what to do when boxelder bugs aren’t rampant:
that’s a different set of worries. Play worry in different keys.
C is where you always start and end. Or so my teacher said.
For he was taken by the logic of the dominating swarm,
the way it left the punctured globes upon the boughs.
We played a spray of ditties in his wake. They sounded like
most pickers (those in tempo; those articulating their misfortunes).
Or at least that’s what I imagined going on. Black dots spread,
black spots. Pretty soon the world is one great gall. Then what?
Then we hide in the meadow. Oh, how it hums, this meadow.