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I) The bereft draft of a drop of wet sky will tell you tales from a vivid north and it will speak the eastern vale. When talking with clouds, listen to the raven wanting to claim attention to some space and a little time. The card of a small wall of thistle bridges the world; another world opens up in an eye, from a stalk.
The throwback to an ancient necessity
is green; the wander of an eye’s
lowering of curvature is its shell
of calm, and the quickening of
the quill is its fire.
Mountain smoke gathers an
hour past the file of
germs that woo the word that
spell that glue that binds the
bell that rings the mountain quick.
The weather stream jostles
for day in the event that
the cry for river bends
a knot, a vine, a chirp
away from depth.
Silence is the growth of a chirp, and
the tweet will whistle the
hum of the stream that brushes
past my gush of hurt, a century
Some rope withstands the
feel of the heart strand;
where is the kind
truth that settles my binary drums?
The valor of a purple stir is
a call to my ocean of thorns of
a valley that stirs the moan,
that fills the ink of rhythm.
VII) Beyond the ken of power, the flow of the morning thrush is green is present is there willing, combing the steady remnants of day. The reach of gold and sand that cusps the thread of my warm grasp of this broken bit of nuance, red with worry. Wound up in stark volumes that gear up strands of dearness and tearing the filament of an unborn thought perpendicular to the blue veil.
(Naran and Ayubia; mid-June 2015)