It’s morning.

The sparrow

only sings.

On the downright wall, autumn

leaves.

The sun acts all fresh

jumps a given volume

of decay from sleep:

an apple

wears away at the chance

of a perforated basket.

A feeling like things astray

passes over the eyelid

between trees and the green second

azure repetition

speech falls in with regret.

Yet

white reverence of paper!

Pulse of our words

drags in the distance of ink

in the mind, form’s gravity

goes to waste.

One must close the book

get up take measures to prolong time,

look at the rose,

hear its indeterminacy.

Run to the end.

Ro to ruin for the smell of earth.

Arrive at the conflation of God and the trees.

Sit

close to expansion

somewhere between rapture and revelation.

Rain

scrubs down leisure’s ribs.

I, with damp

sand playing incantation

saw an illuminated dream of distance.

I was the sand’s cross of freedom.

I

missed.

In the garden

was a familiar table

broad.

Something in the middle, like

rich comprehension:

A bunch of grapes

veiled all doubt.

The overhaul of silence

rattled me

I saw the tree there.

when it must have been,

must have been,

must

and reject the narrative

till the blank text

follows.

Yet

jasmine melody!

Night was brimming,
the river climbing from the foot of the pines.
The moon-gilt valley, and the mountain so bright that God was exposed.

Us at the heights. 
In turns vanished, the surface scrubbed, and a glance slimmer than any night.
Your hands were giving me word of the green shoot,
pots breaking with your slow breath
and my pulse cast in stone.
From an old wine, summer sand in the veins
and moongaze on your ways.
You wonder, at liberty, befitting the earth. 

The green shot in the courtyard, yoked to the cool air.
Shadows were returning
and the breeze still on the way,
mint that would yield
brimming colour.

Dusk spilled redhot
displaced stone.
The mountain silent.
The river roars.
Left in the skirt of the field
the azure harvest.

Shadow alloyed with shadow.
Stone with stone.
The washed-up day moves on
in all its beauty, and its eyes
play sorrow in a smile.

From the battlements the owl sings
the vultures down
from the air, one by one:
a carcass left in the field
a beak rends eyes from their place,
below the brow
two azure pits.

Darkness closes.
The field takes comfort.
The story of the colour of day
comes to an end.