and quite before the acid leaf unfurls into its meaning
we are sub­ject­ed to the play of light,
work­ing on our neces­si­ty to speak out

into a flow­er­ing. It is not yet warm and
already the sun is play­ing at drag­ging up

and dis­play­ing those unwant­ed words,
elu­cida­to­ry and gar­ish in their babblement.

Its almost nec­es­sary to cut them
at their source. That well-spring

is a tree-wound­ed gash. The birds
dis­agree in their illu­mi­na­to­ry chat­ter as
they may,

and cast all their cir­cum­spec­tions to the breeze.

image_pdfimage_print