The appeal that harmony
makes of each bloom
of flesh, each rot
fractal overlapping
matter as light
of its likewise self
shines uncowed by
the sloth of thought
To come as a bloom
of flesh in the open
mouth that is morning’s
body gone song
in the breath sun
makes of its courtly
and distant throb
My son you are weak
beside your own engulfed
manner of flowering
like a shadow that thins
itself into the blade-strew
of rents broaching
the earth and laden
with pinwheel darkness
To blister softly
as the leaves unfurl
and luff in the coil
of wind that wefts
one’s skin to sun’s
simmering orbit
