Spiral Axes

Warmer sun's day says,
it's a sparrow talk
ground punishments 
are rescinded 
as light elevates
boxes from the sea
to the bluer ocean.

Bright thoughts penetrate
the eyes' corners 
to individuate spectral 
yellow-orange blazes 
with a rented wrecked aspen.

Tall budsmen, you've been peopled 
against the concrete fact 
of your desire to live among
kinds and kinds and kinds.

Elegiac noses smell the past 
and see miasma as the
cardinal red feather death;
mouths willing to taste 
see pine needle pricks 
as beauty's life and fate.

Another story in a book
once a conifer, always ink,
from thought to think 
we are sinking from progress
to a ceiling cellar safe.

Top mornings scrape the after eleven edge;
ticks sucked the tock 
out of the clock's ears
and time won't hear 
our smiles or our tears.

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