You write a poem. You have made the universe’s ridge,
a purple turning violet, an uprisen lark bellishing in blue
jubilation, who swings a single wing against the tyrant sun
and swipes away the light. When the skylark starts to soar
it means the coming wraith of war. When the sky implodes
in rage, it means your blood dies dry on page. Hush
little poet, don’t speak a word. Under charnel vaults
not a gasp is heard. All time is silent where your corpse
rots interned. And if that risen lark should sing, just strive
within the milky edge of wing, the forge-wrought flail
of feathers flaking flames and flinging fire. The world
falls
to different rebels now, as maelstroms of whitened hail
shatter air to whiter hail in shrapnelled apogee, a flash
of dawnblasted ice that lashes nerve from bone, a fresh
apotheosis of fluttered cries dissolved to sovereign sound.
II.
It is a theater of solar wind and crumbling cloud, a play
with no proscenium, no final act, and no denouement.
It is pulsing wave on wave through rushing waves
on splurging pips of particles through flowing forms
of forms on metamorphoses of gushing primal light.
It is light transformed to orange churned red by space
expanding, elselands of concealings rippling like sand
made rock turned sand again. It is a remembered time,
a half-time, a para-time, curved by the planetary poem.
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