“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