Rustle and gleam in the understory, a breeze
lifts the little lanterns of scarlet columbine,
lit like tongues by the fire of the holy spirit
they lick up through marl and leafrot.
Lanterns. And tongues. In the other story,
under this one, we all know what the lyric wants:
they suck God through their pale green threads
and spray the divine as a yellow dust of pollen—
it’s process and ek-stasis, history and
rupture, stamen and tendril sieving
the wind, an ache for the right turn of air,
for the word that will burn the words away.
And the same shine everywhere. For instance,
on the segmented back of the five-inch, purple-black
millipede on the path, pedaling crazy bright panic
as he arcs up and over a fallen, wet twig of birch.