Dispatch #148

Turned

Turned

A notch
at the top of the mountain—

the eye
without a thought 

threads the sky through.

How hours take

the stain of hours
and hold beneath their bloom

these things arranged 
to resemble a season.

Summer’s hum and lag. 

To walk into it—

breathe the frequencies 
that knot the air, another

animal baffled 
to be an animal.