Mole

studded with blank nipples, dormant so
-J.H. Prynne, _No Song, No Supper_


at first the fey blank ruse floats
tender above the rust its firmer
edge assume a softer center but
settle to the brittle orange loom

the active crust is pouring
like a doom of colors in a thrust
the arcing plane is hushed its moon
is a rose hiding in the rush

enantioselective synthesis the
label on a tomb whose hinges
cannot cuss but fold smoothly
out and into stranger rooms

flowing now and in pieces barely
connected to the frame which once
adored the name now the skeleton
of butterflies gestures to the gush

its face so long serene and bending
as a thorn so young and warmed
by the sun through whirling pane
the compounded speed of earth

stutter wild grey fruit upon the branches
the knotted fig of avalanches' gain whose
game will gem the milling mole to sleep
its chiral stereo leap adopt and murmur loam