David Doran

Greenlight

With reason in hiding, trumpetstars
shout, glow: a virtuosity untamed.

The approaching distance during
passion season seems fluid, fingerless,

as if life could play itself: a sacred
flight unnamed. But emotion picks

carefully through the proximity,
unflappable nebula slips out back.

In grass now unpacking shapes,
it prepares logic's timely arrival

(everything visible in petals and pistils).

There's a thinness persistent in belief
that persistence itself lacks: blind

and battered wordsong, tall and tattered
notion of regret. Yet moments are

sometimes ripe for the separation,
the melismatic jutting out into oceans

nestled between the ends of things.
The brass moon relaxes influence,

air is hydrogen and helium. During
such pendulumstops is when gardens

learn the tending--where every day's
the festival of nothing in particular.