Blue window open unto Spring's night,
grey matter drifting in the foaming moon light;
below the little veins of a late freeze shake the green,
'till the yellow blossoms fall like scabs from an old wound.
Growing in the stains of the sill, a seed found within fossil,
crushed into a cello of a woman, who bathes in amber clay,
pursuing things that pile in the corners of her secret soul,
and the tune reins again blue, as tone drinks a sweeter water,
cordial collecting on the feathers of the two fish in the sky,
instrument, she, floats up in to the rafters of the birds of oblivion.