The colors in needy eyes.

In the bough and without adjustment, innocence rows. It shares a tree with

A mysterious breeze. It grows accustomed to change.

The heart might as well be the colors in needy eyes--

The eyes, half-accustomed, bewildered by their share

Row. They row.

Teeth marks.

The color of the first impression

Differs widely from the one that lasts.

Upon the bowed shape of the scar it appears, and the color

Is not far behind.

Too far ahead, however, is the bent of age,

And its differentiation of skin; these things fill a sac

In the hostilities of space. They are neither foot

-prints nor statements, though either jealously claims

Followers. Though either admits its personal and savage

Nursery.

In lieu of flowers.

Churn out in pared banquet fruit

That personal ghost language whose stem

Is more of a root,

And whose stammer is more of a brigade stomp,

In lieu of flowers.

Contiguity.

Before the next light reclaims its lion share of the blue plain

A star or so will give shape to

All the things that are naively embraced.

Order.

For my Mother.

If it was ever exactly so--and if so that it appeared so, so

Likely was it then from the ideal to grow in error.

A hex, then, on your eyes--and mine, as if a hex upon the glare

Of a jewel--a hex therefore goes on the wearer.

But couch away a kiss for her, the birds and grasses

of her day who paused--and caused, and mothered it.

Her apron is seen thin, her perfume caught, but faint--

It's essence roams like thought (or memory lost in fragrant deposit.)

Once there came about in Order a familiar kind of neck I know--

One like mine in aspect--if better, and worse-exposed in my guesses.

The milk of the veins lies aglow, the pallor grows young on

The laboring, as the throat a pure secret or so holds close, and

Suppresses.