Ink spills the thread, spreading
I could blink
and it would be gone
clear ringing? A tone crisp enough
to pierce the film that keeps us clean in-
side. Birds call, but not like this. In
to move, to pounce
an eye on the lines, the trace of my soul
Look into it, reading my mind.
Where did the summer go and why did it lie
By telling the minty taste to turn sour?