This retinue of finches
sating hunger from the sickened oak
move like the knowing of bitter endings
the self makes plain, turning
away from the mottled blossoming
spread through the lone acacia limbs,
lingering instead upon the hole in the sky
made by the seeping absence of clouds.
So eyes sweep never settling upon
flesh and shine and
the crowd of atmosphere pressing
down each fold of bright and green.
Appetite pools, then dries,
the self flitting from limb to limb,
faceless without a want to fill,
shapeless in this abundance of empty touch,
unknown and unseen in
the words and the weeds.