beyond the beyond

“sad” is made

of the thought

beyond the one beyond the door

of what is felt

“melancholy” is the extra

crimson parasite vine

on a September poplar,

it quietly sways in the wind,

squeezing the tree

into dead.  the calm,

roundeyed worldview seems owlish

and is not easy—example:

there is a silver bowl

with a sand colored dowel

where my son dropped it

after making the bowl sing

along its edge.  it makes a sound

like clarity. it makes a sound

that soothes the seared edge

of caring like this— “I” care

“I” fear.  “I” feel so, very much.

So difficult to bleed back

into the spectrum

of colors, as a tiny mote

near green, trying to imagine

what’s beyond the beyond

ravishing, tacky azure.

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