in rushing rooms
alone—yesterday’s scene
playing outside
in rushing rooms
alone—yesterday’s scene
playing outside
the ceiling calls
only in echo—”This,”
it says, “is how high”
heart’s dance,
stepping to rhythms laid
by time itself
eyedropper of
ink in water—a blossom
of violets
reaching the floor,
crumbs from last night…
you were saying?
were days like petals
we might circle and circle
forgetting the sum
thinking of bees this
winter—cold their constant
rubbing
this road is straight, still
something feels sinuous—
snakes now vanished
a dictionary-
worth of words—each object
named finally
returning to
a psalm of satisfaction—
acres of spice