Bright horizons were a timeless keep:
buzzing iridescently
in my eyes alone
like the perfect Signac painting
the new-fangled dragonflies and dry cicadas
domed the cliffsides of the last reserve
mating
obsession's obessesiveness
for truth, won't speak for itself
on the lions it killed
awake or asleep.
So revel, poets
revel,
drift,
and revel.
A bayside breeze made this:
wistful pelts
banks each, dyes deposit wheel
fragrance brought
high
to me;
bluntly
on the lesser things.
There had boundless fern-controlled
anticipations
of sound
and the meaning
of sound
humming me ceaselesly and
beyond?
My room, beneath
the closeted beam of the distant lighthouse,
flooding
of sea salt,
overflowing
meteorites
against the balustrade of
Saturn's storms
that render harm in harmlessness
to Haydn's balanced and expressive forms.
