by Catherine Blauvelt

 

 

Between brussels,

       shoved little moor from above.

 

My rocket was aimless, the insanity

of rosemary reaching

usual things

with sound, the sound of tents. Enormous

Flowers sound swan body shadows.

Take

Me.

 

We happen

below the sun, if there

 

aren’t thousands guttered,

                         circling above,

 

soon to hear the black and dalmatian,

soon to leave one eye for rolling, say a way

now close in thunder. This vent

 

                                 high sky patterns

 in fits, flower prints,

private gardens wanting forever on a hill.