While cutting up some onion, for dinner yet
not knowing what to add beside some garlic,
a dynamic slip sliced the side of my finger
like a variant at the edge of a bird’s nest
caught in the bared growls of the cherry tree,
months before it will break out into spring.
There will be the blankets of blossoms
constantly inlaid with the thinnest of florets,
while the lawn will have already been seen
as a ruff mosaic by the corner imp after
winter receded away from the sunken burrows,
as occasion the thirst salved with the thaws.
Discomfiting winds, still, will carry the heartfelt,
unless the object is far enough below the pressure
with the full dorsal mass refusing submission,
though what’s more harshly common is water,
the universal solvent with dyes of encoded ink
and then the arrows spoken through the air of bone.
So much will burn steady through the year
for the stalled warmth beside anthracite coal,
glowing red with the eyes of burning auctions.
So many there are out test driving icy roads
and finding distracted comfort in the muted
acridine warbles of angels inside trombones.
Graying garages and the un-oiled weather vanes.
Its the same bottom of the barrel, darkly lined
under stars seen as immeasurable distances if
bright enough as reflections which herald planets
made spherical from the expansions of gases.
Gravity accoutering the spindrift destinies.
The great catastrophe brings with it a box
built with and amidst its own cruddy materials
as we sort of do know. And perhaps all this is in
the divine octaves of the purgative waiting,
the eighth day falsely past the westward borders
with what is believed as in what we are moving.