To please an ogle – to shed the scene
where rays were caught by full-grown pupils.
An iris on a blue and green,
the mood ends counting crows – the scruples,

quadrupling heavens in my eyes,
as trebling trembles of the thunders.
To hear “hellos” from old “goodbyes”
I hold the sky and crows asunder.

I keep an ear to breathless ground.
Corroded umbrae are too webby
to stop nativities of sounds.
The mimics of the clouds in ebbing…

27 October 2009