Where do poems go, their shadows fading along the wall, tides breaking across tides, the spent leaf and the bud dovetailed on the branch?
The clouds over China gather, relentless pressures released across the roof tiles in the poorest mountain village, and in Ghana, and in Arkansas, one system, always moving as the planet moves, Earth's elliptic, benchmark floods, record droughts.
Patterns range, repeat, the shadows multiply and the darkness extends through TVs and broadband's puny pulse.
Show me the sun, show me the high range and perpetual velocity, the levers of stars.
The poems without form, yet singular, without appetite, and still we are advantaged.
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