Sing all the silenced songs furled inside your heart’s sharp memory, for you are a choir that magically assembles, but briefly and only once.
Here comes the rush of the morning:
the cold harbor breathes out, and
found us grinning in
Don’t let me be just –
just a stick whittled and trimmed
He doesn’t believe me
but a fly in the wine changes it:
First blossom today, taking center court as it
floats over the cosmic, kaleidoscopic carp,
Pluto, you are out. Just like that.