Can you finger that skyey
by Richard Bunch
Riot come of age with frost, mountains
Furrowed, the tympanics of spring?
The hymns, thrums abuzz
With bee-deep illuminations
Unplucked from April's fields,
And still stroke the central sound,
Tip the primordial wine?
Listen. Explode now
With a delicious silence
To forge beyond blood-bred twilights,
Past the smoking dragon
Brow-deep, atom-steeped in ideologies.
For the end sky drums the bluest blue.