Concentric.
Cast low under angel's orders of drones, of expositors
I don't know who or what
If I look up, I might offend
However mannered, the poem dares us to write about the poem
I'm fool enough to say it flattens and folds
heaven's domes into fibers
Stitched through whatever ear and then out into a commonness
Something unshrinkable being promised us
Who are never miniature enough
Miniature for minimum, a red mineral illuminating
the old manuscripts
With pictures and filigree through air of voice
Would splice and bind, almost a surgery.