“Put your trust in the inexhaustible nature of the murmur.” Breton
From the repeat bloomers, then, believing
their need was understood—expressed in coming
back, back again, arched upright, scented, red
against the trellis,
and from the bee throbbing its thorax against wet
siding outside my studio before the sun
touches it. Sex? Or prelude to? Either way
it pulses, thrusts, stops.
Staghorn sumac, for another, here today, about
to be dust, ditto the wild motherwort,
seed-brown, falling over, finished for the year—
runnel, rivulet, rill of a lost voice.
It came, too, from the hydrangea Quick Fire,
falling forward on its long canes, tipping
conical blooms that were green, ivory,
then blush with coppery hues.
The murmur which barely concealed the silver
of knife blades, fine metallic slashing, scraping,
sharpening, whetting, stone
finally crying out enough, enough.
Photo By: Jim, the Photographer
