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Under Heaven’s valance

Does the Dove’s downiness mimic a dusty, spectacular arrangement of leaves

And a Raven echo back the romantics’ display of absurdity

Petals wilted at repetition

A frenzied dual arises

Volatile stillness of neglect, wrought with potential

And do the ascetics refrain from a silence so piercing the anchor falters

Benevolence in the edible relationship with angels

Their wings, a vehicle of tiny gods

Tiny palms of hand

When their feet hit the earth, the seat of devouring giants

An equal and opposite response, obligatory in nature

Was not offered due time to coalesce

The rare game refuses association with fine feathers

Runs riot, dying to the imagination

Drowned in the hollow of a cinnamon rest

A dance until death

Musings which arise from your inside voice

Alenely buried

In an open field

Where enumerated by the sun, wild grasses beckon upwards