The landscape thinks itself in me,
        and I am its consciousness.

Bedlam fair, a far cry from–

An alarm of silence behind it. How the future retreating into a painting
is part. Against your will.

        Eyes closed.
        Eyes opened under water.

Though it is something you see, you feel it inside
your mouth, earth-flavored,
and your lungs’ motion exactly like waves, filled with water light.

He who hath drunk the mixture called “Doctor”,
milk, nutmeg, water & rum, to cure the King’s Evil…

He who couldn’t care crushed bugs in the meadow…

        Where Aspen trees offer winter’s first coin.
        Where the maps printed lily-outlay, saw the high ground in blood.
        Where the unmoved moon covet in full-face snow, like sleeptalk.
        Where you can locate a glass bead, the size of his thumb, drawn

butterflies, inside the larynx, the voice-box singing and singing for you,
in mourn & celebration, awe’s act of only air, less alone by the minute.

Such ascent between music & mathematics
        at the sky’s all-ache helm blue…

Therefore, godly hour.
Therefore, overgrown & undone.
Everything, if by love, is imperfect.

        Shining indecipherable, we are at that moment.

        To unfurl and flower, as if

saying farewell.