WEBVTT

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Concentric.

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Cast low under angel's orders
of drones, of expositors

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I don't know who or what

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If I look up, I might offend

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However mannered, the poem
dares us to write about the poem

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I'm fool enough to say
it flattens and folds

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heaven's domes into fibers

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Stitched through whatever ear
and then out into a commonness

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Something unshrinkable
being promised us

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Who are never miniature enough

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Miniature for minimum, a
red mineral illuminating

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the old manuscripts

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With pictures and filigree
through air of voice

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Would splice and bind,
almost a surgery.

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