Small Grass

When our gray
did tender

our blue night
young,

trilled up
and down

a mellowed
pass;

Beat,
the wakening song.

Warble

A bloodless coo
I hear
on my hands

A mud flipped slew
I eye
on my lands

A rare balmed lip
I trip
in the stands

A birdless flue
I spit
on my hands

B-3

What to do with a series of love theories?
Or with the unburied profiles of the finite
dead?

Open-eyed
I race restfully, considerate of
too many decades, of their mind-clatter,
searching such patter
for their stranger presence,

their potent berths, a flower and series
—chord progressions emitted

his beige gas-lit harmonium
in type,

escaping air,

and never swaying foolishly
along
to a jump-blues song’s
completion.