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.