More than One, Less than Too Many

Finite attitudes sprawl,
regaling esses with messes scrawled 
on tables stolen from regal carcasses
whose maple sap can no longer spill brown molasses
on other tables taken from other trees.
Letting scriptures flower, meaning like bees,
cower at home in winter, writhing just enough
to survive in glass-filtered sun, roughly 
brushed by hands committed to permanent
replication, dedication to finding firmament
over which to paint plurality 
without an iota of concavity.