A Petal and Some Petals

At this night there is something
that should be unwrapped
with what could not only sleep.
Beside what-- Me? You? The moon

in the yard can drip a sea
of phosphoresce extending
the blue of what
just prior was the dour
evening, mirrored on cobalt snow
an hour or two ago. Which,
that’s fine too, has to do with love,

but now the lowest of light’s refraction
and the swonk feeling done,
tumbled into violet and scant things
all like the dangerous clarities
founded in mathematical theorems.

They will share the atmosphere together.

The nimble ice thin dancers.
The surest of fatuous butchers.
To succumb to truncated figuring blades
slice through air numinous
creative destruction

and the only dotted dullard-
if the throat of tomorrow’s afternoon
is ironed with contracted insensitivity,
padlocked and molded
and kept unable to cough
an ensemble hemorrhaging
with rude pains of merismopedia,

here in this tangle of tight strings
of stereo parquet. Horse feed.
This, this, multiplicative grit
where the sun’s rosin of algae
has boisterous finales,
that don’t lie to themselves
about what’s always uncompleted,
in opposite seasons. Never satisfied.

The thrilling Rimsky-Korsakov
played over the oil on whetstones,
the Mexican’s and Lithuanians.

They are all parts of pieces
of an assembled apparatus
contained along with
the rest of the world,
with sudden reptile colors

feathering birds of paradise
beside the eras marked
by their incomprehensibilities
of centigrade zero.

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