Celery sliced ends of calla lilies slow drip into a clear glass
They are tied with purple yarn, tightness making impressions on the green
White ovoid blooms lean in the direction of a doorway, a room tries to assemble itself so it can be described
The talon point of flowers slice air, the sex anxiously swats around looking for bees
Walls arrive and the room is a library, books make mildew and chairs puff themselves
Crystal glasses fill with thick clear alcohol that casts a green shadow
Purple threads tie themselves into the carpet making a Persian rug, one forgets and snags on a desk leg; this makes everything look worn in
The calla lilies drip and the bedroom is dismantling itself to make library shelves
The bedposts are busy rubbing to make powder to mix with liquid for paper; books begin to bind without the pages
Glass unmakes into sand then turns an hourglass as the sun starts to invent that abrupt line of fire just below clouds
Out across the world a tuning begins; floorboards upright and practice treeing, the sand remakes glass, breaks into fine shards and causes a field
Pages of unfinished books fold themselves into leaves
The calla lilies fill the glass then plant themselves at the edge of melting
Everything is floating, the soil and rocks are busy inventing the moon and stars behind all the redness...
