Michael Wright

under the throw of roses and the smell of ginger, each to each, march. under the burning sky and beneath the bridge crossing sighing water, move in step. through portals and domains intersecting sense with sense, reaching for hours, teaching naught, giving aught flying by the sight of a single star, all must think anew. this is the better news of an old song, the hieroglyphs tell the rest, everything in clock-top shape idling for yet another hour, while whatever’s padding in the forest begins to pick up the scent. the pace must increase, it’s only natural, and in time there will be new flows of roses and ginger, a tapestry full of diamonds. yet for now and for the next, whatever rises is only makeshift and the smell of vanilla claims the air, for it is thought that stalks, thought that gives to kill, thought that strangles the vines themselves, no longer content with merely taking the life of the tree, no symbiosis here or there, nor in the foreswearing of sentiments baked too lo