concrete demands in feathered Sanskrit, gray puffs
and wisps: seemingly reversible legibility
laws of purple sun kissers, moon-touchers, sky scrapers
sent down snot-ooze waters to the unwashed
cretin subsets and subsidiaries.
cobalt complexion and rosy exposed sinews
of chameleon twigs, they morph, and break
falling, to be washed away
lime green dew boats
waving with seasons end though savagely
hacked apart by icy wind and snow
what feeling remains in the mute?
can there be a corollary for this pain?
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