An occluded littleness



The pattern of dawn is
    damp, its window sill

Went looking for the lock
    that clamps your whistle.

The brief reminder that you,
    I and the tamarinds

Are galloping a rhinoceros
    breath, a singe, a vote.

The sill of dawn is cracked
    with the skill of the

Numerographer; the bate of
    your breath is wile,

Is reminiscent, and is a
    styled shade of indigo.

An eye to wind, an
    eye to the waft

Of wind, to the gulf
    I dare to bind 

With words, with verse;
    no gateway owned.

The false pin distends
    an articulate poesy,

An occluded littleness
    wanting to rub soot

In its eyes, waiting for
    an expired license

To walk on ice, to feel
    the rise of the blue.