by Alex Streim

A bush of birds
A flushed nation of tiny blooms
Crushed blossoms
Voices from the churchyard peal
A bundle of hewn planks put down
In the same lush place
Black tarp’s mountainscape’s 
Pulsing at the edges
Hook of moonrise 
Quiet horns 
Daffodils bleating gold
At freshet grasses 
For who is as responsible for flowers
Names suffice
The crust of ice shed
Roiling fire 
In the sepaltips
Speak   Throat
If Names suffice
Accompaniment of stamen-
Strings make susceptible to 
Fall into the yawning iris
Man mount the rising moon
Bloom noon 
I O Great Fermata
Of ice
Who speaks in choirs