Daynight, With Mountains Tied Inside

Chandelier too full of brilliance to be indolent. Your prisms enunciate the light and don’t need rain to break it into rainbows. Snow with six crutches in each crystal. Your livery your glitter, your purring made visible. Only inanimate things can sparkle without sweat. My spinet, the threat of music in its depths and miniature busts of men composers carved of time on top. The hollow bench held sheet music. Sing me Charm Gets In Your Eyes. I hear you best when undistracted by your body. In headspace technology, where flowers are living in glass globes, their fragrance vivisected. Anything that blooms that long will seem inanimate. Heaven. Grief like the sea. Keeps going. Over the same wrought ground. The whole spent moan. Praise dies in my throat or in the spooky rift between itself and its intended. Like a wish- bone breaking. The little crutch inside is not a toy. There is no night asylum. A restless bed, a haunt preserve, a blanket rough as sailcloth. But sing me, was it kind snow sometimes? With true divided lights and nothing flawed about it? If song goes wrong, be dancerly. Dance me, at what point does west turn to east as it spins? I’ve never understood. Perspective. How charm gets to yes. Dance me Exile and the Queendom, by request. It is a ferocious thing to have your body as your instrument. Glove over glove, let your dance express what I’ve been creeping like a vein of sweat through a vastness of. This tune with mountains tied inside and many silent letters can be read as trackers scan the spaces between toes and birders read the rustle left by birds. As any mammal in its private purr hole knows, the little crutch inside is not a crutch. More a sort of steeple. Neither silver to be chased nor gold to be beaten. You were==you are more than ever like that too. Noon upon noon, you customize this solitude with spires that want nothing from me and rise with no objective as everything does when happy.