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The quest of the poem? A rascal dew
Moistly over a tribe of orchids
A leader never heard the minutes
So now the song flows, as they do,
River brown, or clear if north, stones,
Where you can lose yourself headlong
Thrown equal in a murk as clarity
Which might cool or warmth seduce
Birth and liberate dull distractions
Into a sediment condensing fall

Of frog, lizard, pre mammalian eras
Infused with asteroids and volcanoes
And tropical fronds of tropical ports,
Riding migrant lines in reverence
For the leak of creation, additives
To diamond puddles of blood oranges
Pooled from the sweet milked coconuts,
How was that, fronds of carbon, emergence

With reflections, no preference, agility,
Swirling eddies in torrents of the Yangtze,
Between branches and momentary above
Ledges that require wings, waters with gills,
Open spaces coiled in the gravitas singular,
The constant universal when we first swallow
Mouthfuls of red oxygen, ground’s weight,
Breathing then on in a canister pouring sky
Later adorned with the drift of pink clouds
Of a personal shed as we go beyond ourselves

In the round head with a mouth spitting
Language eggs, the semblance momentary
Like the relief that then collapses on itself
Followed through with saving continuation,
Momentum for inspiration, swollen tributary
Like innumerable cells of sea life, swimming
Inward, on instincts, beneath the jettison
Propelled from steep escalations of waterfalls
Upstream where people have since gathered down

On hands and knees under arcing rainbows
As beautiful as humidity in stanzas, completed
From the broke free droplets cut from the mass
That are, not mine, but our ideas, emotions,
Filled in images spraying forcefully out through
Common sounds of our day’s hieroglyphics,
The same I-Got-It meaning as string theory,
Like explanations for infinity, within fractals,
Exact measurements of time’s endless universes

Circuiting around burning gas conglomerates
That resemble intense pondering over
Double lattes on terraced porches, back tables
In library basement corners, lost gone weekdays
At night in private studies, the bottleneck
And a radio’s hand blown harmonica, before bed,
Sheets where a lover does drift, somewhere
Makes a land that we have imagined can be
Convulsed through heroics or splendid magic
Stored in cavities of lyres, lutes, drums, chant

Compiled language through a philosophy
To turn communication onto its own light,
Random coherencies, spoken, sufficient
With reflexive subject matter as mountains
Tower over villages, shores of sea ports
Wash toes outward, into shadows, visible
As your own heart and mind, lost nowhere
And still, ignoring the pretext, cry along
With the gibbons until adducing a dance

Or submit, memorialize, the effervescent
That knells within the bald exclamations
Of the wild, sirens, a disband of differences
Between night and day, beastly angelic
Instances only, calls and the echoes
Of tolling bells. Cicadas this evening.
Early crickets. Feisty driveway dogs.
Hidden backyard cats. The caterwaul.
The bark. The horn. The vibratory fusion
In a hum through some spoken words.

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