What wrought

The sweet mystery, the brass that flowed like honey

Over ivory tessellations of the lattice of the mind,

Like drip,


The honeyed pearl alight with seas of foreign planets

And home-deep bellies of salt-black brine.

Like drip,

My stamen’s root the fire

In the mind’s engorged tumult, ‘to be as a fire is before dead wheat still singing in the wind’s rooted aspire.”

I did not denote, connote, or conspire to ellipse the surface of the mind with such viscous, such sticky,

Such as the drip on the edges of the mind,

That drip

Like silver slipped in furnaced brooks racing in the grooved iron guides, an ornamental

Where apples took the stick and the body was encompassed with the honeyed metaphor.

Oh such stick.

My itching eye burns latticed splice across the panorama of flowing honey

Over roiling seas, see, ‘let me in, by the steam’s aspiring jet the froth of honey blooms as lilies in a gently sweeping valley…”

Or deny it, if you will, that drip.

After a certain time

What would sustain such fecundity beyond the tatters of time but

That she brooks the silver and pearls the distant seas

From which the unfolding of the force that cannot be contained

Drips onto open petals,

Honeyed and in a new bronze as if no time told

What newness yet could continue to unfold