`~`~`~`~`~`~

At an open patio
where life is pouring
skies that do not create furniture
births of metal bodies
ride out of the earth
we're not sure if we're clinking glasses
or touching hands
but something is holding

On lightning paths
it moves bodies beyond form
time like a blade cuts chronology
across the sugar rails
of a butterfly conservatory
button quail are little commas of lard pecking
don't touch the wings in your hair
it's murder

Here's a brightness to be defended
it doesn't ask
octograms of garden gird
leafy gazebos
our guardian flowers