.

theirs
is a typogarchical touchstone poem,
the already-here but not-yet-there
nonpulsed flare of a floating song
with its allatonce too-early-too-late
knock of a rhyme that has nothing
to do with speed or time since they
ceased to be subjects long ago
to become events refined by lines
from east to west like the firefly
knoll that she breathes in through
the deep green bite of a lake-night
air where water and sky cling to
the stare and silver-hung haze of
a three-quarter inch moon
in late-heat June.