Arson
We were all given the same words and a pen like one bulb to heat a cathedral and the same subject forever our part of it ways to describe the combed clouds and their brightening denials pollinators finding by infrared the scentless flower Purpose was a sense of self and the world at the same time made of leaves and spaces all right there in Barbara’s yard sun fired arms of the harpist angel martins in a pagoda on a pole space bent by asparagus and capillaries small muscles holding pen to paper like a torch