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But if those clouds were Turner’s pale blooms
stemming from ocean – if any horizon could tie itself
in evening’s lilac knots, my stanzas of self could
sail into the not-everything-a-poem.
If not art, why would our family villanelle
have been just Say it!, all arguments end-stopped
rhymes with ever and fend. Whatever else
explains this morning’s layers of birdsong and wind?
A musical threading of our years’ arabesques
of absences. You admit relationships
are either art or science, so don’t those lean winter trees
somehow alliterate with alien and lenient?
And the air’s tang reverberate with the new year’s
blossom pink? Our rising mountain years,
the waterfalls of doubt we scurried beneath,
our bare legs and umbrellas like a print by Hokusai.
Love is different than a work of art, I agree.
The layers keep rearranging
their chrysanthemum geometry.
We remain an unfinished still life,
breaking into a cantata of dish clinks
and dogs whining – and yet
pristine breakfast silence
can cloud with lyric all our logic.