Why all the hangups?
Its as though we can open to them, all our small disasters
that can be made available for some sparks that remind
us of the sullen marigold. First though, an air that’s dark.
Then a concentricity. Augering deep into integrative,
is what rises back up a tablature across a presently
vague surface. While still, the wells of the shadows.
But an elusive thread, it can flint across the above
sun, plaintive and yellow, to bring a something together
as light slipping fluidity over off the soluble whorls
of the bouquet. Then welcome the miscue of mercury.
Enter learned tragedy. A stage that was set for red
opera with players that fall between the curtains.