Close-Knit Flower Sack

Seedless golden tears,

ferns bound to flesh at off angles,

busted out rez towns,

hemming us in with a cloak of mosses.

The orchestration needs tufts of black shadow,

incidental notes to weigh it down, the blanket depicts a field and loon.

I said we once formed kingdoms at the foot of a vanishing stone.

What was it I said that they said?

“Vividness is Self-Selecting”

several points flowing together in stonework.

I only use words like stones because we are far away.

We corrupt a landscape through the planting of foreign flowers.

Borders are so often theorized as division

wending along with a spot of sunlight,

“The bone frame was made

for

no such shock, knit within

terror

yet the skeleton stood up to it.”

They are not artifacts but fit to our hand,

our daily voice,

the short mouth line erased.

The marsh revels in its glitter

and occasional cranberry.

The subject is left purposely unstable,

we will not be robbed of continuum.

The shells fly out from the dress,

on strings, according

to demands left in the music.

Certain stories are told in full frog regalia,

the music is allowed its wet set of wings

and room to lie down.

Words arranged for prayer

are in fact geometric forms

or portraits of poets themselves,

uncovering the dictates of a graven line.

Orlando, are we even

allowing ourselves the present

moment anymore?

There are still two blankets that sit on either side.

Reimagining can take place at the root of time,

out of all necessity

we convert the elements

as a matter of course.