The arbiter’s tongue, soft under wing in flattened seventh,
Measured in the embochure. Fly, fly like grass in wind.
Over qualm and quell, so cruises buds in air.
Fawned over glasslike, that in cages spat;
Such is excitement in primordial form.
What hook she drives in the flesh competition,
And culls intellect: such unfairness,
To take the sky, and when she comes
— a storm warning.
I plant the seeds of my thoughts in you
To grow like unwanted growths.
You are calmest in capture, in imagined capture.
Like dislodged modes in minor sternness, grew
Mixolydian melodies in my almost-rebirth.
Why is attraction easy, asks the earth
In its near-rapture.
End, in little fading vibrations,
The outcomes, they hung on such flimsy strings.
The pages upon which we started caught activity
And with its half-life consumed, it slowly decays.
— A. P.