Invariants, you say: synthetic resources.
The pink camellia has set its buds, each
tiny flower radial and closed.

We practice parsing lines; I try to tell you
that the breaks are random.

There will be a freeze tonight. We will
wake from it singing riddles to the second
power, little pink concentric circles
of meaning.

Words float between us, twin bubbles
of aphasia–like Steven's pears,
swelling a bit around the base and touched
with red.

What remains are the tight pink petals
of the camellia, silk fingers packed
in a fist.

An alphabet of red and pink, you say.

A shallow rain shines across the dark
leaves. The camellias turn and turn,
little pink wheels of light.

Dissonance, you breath into the damp air.