Aspects

Our lines do not rhyme. Instead,
they create their own phantoms
and their own plasma, rhythms
of other times and ascensions.
It is riddling to be so lost in what

articulates us. The hours relapse,
and we are contained in passages
that feel us as we them. The hours
expand, and I go with you into an
environment that leaves us both
in an upsurge: wonders of the lyric

world. Then to assess where we are now
becomes an unnecessary duty.
We are here in the same city, near
the lower edge of the Rockies still
topped by winter snow. Will we — when
the hours no longer seep so quickly

through — be ready to say more at the stillest
moment? It would be good to have
a painting of our lives with even the black
tones lighting us in our own orange suns.
You go before me and I hear your lines
flowing back, a sky leaking through my pores.