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on his bicycle the trees whose tips vibrate invisibly
back away, no longer shrinkable. sunup had not
come to prevent the raw feel. into the lawn the man’s
campaign to add a fifth season sinks.
* * *
A glint of blue
butterflies its way
across the
throats of seven
children.
A wheel is
the forwardness
we thought
emerged only as
accidental
tongues.
* * *
What force did lull our arms as if in code I
wait, goodbye, asleep now. All nerves we invited
to leech the battery of morning choirs
hid, so they grew over with hush
despite sunset, throat saying not in case.
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