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.