My palate is a purple pomme du lait
It takes the weight off my feet profound and muted
Beating like a dream you can grasp in your hand
Silky-smooth, balmy, and murmuring
Gaze infinitely enough and you can glimpse
My cruor is strewn with trusses of Olea europaea
And Pogostemon cablin
And the untainted onyx aqua
And if you stare even more fiercely
When the lambency hits me on the nose—
I am utterly lucent
And shorn of all that is physical and able to be enclosed
For that instant
Even if you can't snare me
I can snare you
In nothing flat I am whole nine yards and hard
My impulse now obscure
By now the musing is only snippets of noise
Pecking my lobes and cincturing my skull
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