Seed these words
in your everyday speech—
Acanthus or helichrysum;
indica, milagrosa, javanica;
perforate, constellation, for no reason
but that they introduce
a break in the aftermath of repetition.
Drone of some large, unseen motor
outside our windows every night
after midnight, bearing neither trace
of gold nor verdigris: you do not lead
to a trapdoor through which we might lower
our bodies into a waiting boat, damp seats
skimming prosaic language off our clothes
so they thin to the embroidery of chance,
texture of a different possibility.
The landscape opens like a tapestry:
under the moon, farmers roll
their cotton pantaloons and sink
toes deeper into the mud.
You would think young shoots
give off a uniform sound every time
there is a planting: o of surprise,
ah of falling and letting go,
allowing the dark to swallow
each body wanting to burst
toward the harvest,
arcing toward the stalk.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.