The Tint of Sounds


Thunder, iron-hued, while a collection of dancing turns in field clearings. Alabaster breath, leaves pull west and fill.

A look, melic. Morning billowing like sea smoke, the universe reflected in your bearing. I see who I will become by the way you favor talking with your eyes. By the heaving of bark and twig.

We tear hue over electric strain, depth dripping silver, while I cradle my spirit, among other things, brush thudding around us.

And rain, clinking as it blues across

my cheek.