from Live from the Woodley Park Marriott, Washington, DC
Whatever is making noise ignores me.
The air is thick with perseverance, the tuning fork
of Switchgrass pales, seed heads sway
huge and dehisce.
A late dusk brightens.
What the Chinese call, return-shine,
fan chao, the air burning
as if from within, the fevered
light in the eyes of the almost dead.
It either breaks. Or it breaks.
The “Messiaen” redux (its parenthesized walls):
“chord blue sky
day time lung”
Harvesting is a private reduced domain
at most one can bring down two,
maybe three at once.
A bag of apples is good rest, so lie down.
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