...

watching breath fall out the spacious sky
dives down in turnings burnings churnings
mapped around a robe of constellations
across an intervening globe of nights,
each time a different star, of prayers,
a ward of words, their worth a reel and a keep,
this time undone by pitch and toss, a total tapping bliss
of loss across the waters of a doric blue
no eye can pierce within that thrash-against-a-thousand,
or more precisely, twenty-six
and double walled amphoras lined up along a wake
that crack the foot of every flaw
that fiercely shards the gem into the writer of his walk,
each lettered night another hawk, a soar,
a corner churned into a catch, one-last-look-back,
his afterword a glance, a key turned in the latch
to fetch a silent tint that floats the air til thick
with one last hovering look, a hook contained
within each whorl he sews into a slice,
inflictive verse and knightful lots unfought,
enough to make us sigh and say we know him when
and how he spills across a floor of open doors
with Vermeer's sunlight trilling out his notes

"...metamorphosized a thousand times each day
as we pass through cultures of self and memory."
(D&G, ATP)