potato mountain clouds form above the blue horizon
scooped up from a side dish
of delinquent vapors, hanging out below the trees, while
through your sun-lit tresses you fumble
for words like beguiled, quiescent, unfettered
—the longer-lasting federation
of light, so much less mathematical
now—from your eyes the uncalculated beauty
of a hummingbird, its errant points and integers
floating like flakes of snow
in a bowl of blond or scarlet light—
One Response
…very nice John!