They Will Sew the Blue Sail


Stemming from partnership. A new green leaf, speckled. Another, all this thunder grafted onto the night’s diminishing returns. The comet whirs, doesn’t stir. Sitting still merits enough praise to parse the time spent doing it. Spent afternoons, light slants easy into dusk. Oh, you: simplest gestures, a tilt, a lift, meant decades reeling out still from ligaments, from filaments and fiber optics. And what’s wrong with spark? Laser treading a beam from everything not kept close when they should have. Who is this hurting? As the oil from unsuitable paint puddles from the ceiling in yellow wells, convex, a fox is spotted. An oil drip spoils a tile. To turn the loudness down, to turn it down, to alter a pitch ever so, to alter, to bend toward counterpoint and fall short. To continue the tradition only to lead it into the woods as the sun sets magnificently golden, of predator wings, spread. Of a feather drawn across the brow, of a final sip of water, of all things still rustling, still singing insect chirp, still.