only if you're counting

A dark blue gray skeleton fish on a grey pink sky at sunset
could be a musky, could be a pike piercing the horizon,

now a small drift into and also away from the possible.

I have seen narwhals approaching from the south
in this most mild of winters

and I was not afraid of the darkness.

To light the bayberry candle and wait for the dusk
is not only sensible,

it is the only possible response.

it hovers under there, in a blanket of mist

Your genome misting smeared on a thickened goblet must of red
is near to mean that revelations are yet possible but partly sealed,

mostly apart from the little drib of saliva glisten left again revealed
when, certainly, all you wanted was that perfect quench of dread

to pitch away into the heavenly green of candle flames gem tossed
under a waving horizon of jagged black teeth lost on broke slopes,

searching for a purple chord that can reign in harmonious tropes
so not yet again a formal sonata with fiery canon is barkly mossed

with velvet greenery grown upon the antler budding sophomores,
who, from the gaunt wolf that howls up from the needles a granite

slab where worship is expected, groan silver dew to black night
in the foggy mystery that wisps and purrs in pineapple spheres.

when the sun arcs low at dawn

cherry red scales of coloratura scent drift lightly
white across gleaming uplifted patinas of sound

and rhythm cannot exit so quickly across deer
skin stretched taut against pale December skies

of cirrus and crystal ice that brush near heaven
with vertebrae scales frozen stiff sky high in azure

canvases chiaroscuro field and ground blanched
to spin a colorless globe with blue focus glowing

on iconic foothills whose spiny bones revel under
the leafless supplication of grey trees that reach

for a god that is half-moon hidden behind fictions
that arise from bored parchment dried to reaching

so far too far when the sun arcs low at dawn