At My Lessons

There were reports of a surge about the surf.
Every torching in the archives velveted some distant one,
molten ran the branching
channels by the numbers.  There has been much erosion this
year.  And storms brushing
coastal harbors with a seasonable breeze.  We were five
at daybreak tunneling curls of “smooth argentine sky.”

Small hand of mine nested in hers, soft
she guided us to fresh hieroglyphs.  Feeding
dragonflies
enpurpled by the night.  

Marshaling precious little
forces into stoppages on the floor.  Retracing
flooded maps
happy to see the clouds.  Meanwhile the saxophone stopped
from somewhere along the city wall -- threaded foaming
ferns napping at moon-gazing.  Even as we range into

teetering prospects giving us a patchwork image of
the cherished
long-view, children play badminton.  Clouds
like long bones clicking high in the museum
make room for their eventual
interlocking.