Sobriety

Mum as an iced-over tulip
she catches midgallop,
pitched up and shot
silent by the resoluteness
of All.

Luster drying dully in the
Maddening Concavity:

All colors spinning to still in her
Whiteness.

Spores anchor and dig heels
in the burnt war-time scrub spaces
black pitched, uninhabitable
still, yet shapeable.

Concavity, Concavity, Concavity

Worse even than the rabid song,
the silent

Stillness
taken root and frozen over.

Spit-pitched, frozen black
in the stillness

And she wizened last of all,
at one with the still blue

Eye of stasis,
mumming its lidless stare
on the sobriety
of oneness,

enigma no longer enigma
but Void.