flame-shadow of wrought
registers
with its flute-like chords

serial fictions
of the transiting soul
fracturing in balm-light

I right my weight’s
swell, singed
into what crude attentions

a conjugation of eddies

toward which
the floating world
readjusts, in anticipation

even the hand’s
coarse rampart, raised

to the possibility
of light, the root of light

which, broken, absolves
nothing
(the nothing
I drink from, daily,

as I watch the orchard
blaze again, the tropism
it metes & laps)

unspoken measure
that grounds
its rhythmic increment