Between advance and decline
—time waits, always. Piquant—our arts break off
in moments of turning seas—mounds of unpiled leaves
withering, unhurriedly towards a return.
Yet, no god could do it—do what?
An ass, a wind, a demon, a thought:
each between two species, two realms, two masters—sayers all.
A key in a tree
—a backwards bending knee
stalling in her eyes
a way of being between rising and falling
upon waters twisting towards a return
of the same.
Her hand moves
—how unhurried in her measure…
He makes an out of hand rejection: what is value?
Blink—a painter’s sink sick with colors
between tang and dreary
—what is value?
Significance hides inside a needle in an egg in a duck in a hare in an iron chest buried under a green oak tree on the island of Buyan in the ocean.
Or it laughs as a key in tree.
