Panorama of hue

Birth this from the hem of the turf,
the unripe growth quietened by dawn's gloss.
The path reels in the clumsy gates
torn open by the descending bloat
of trees, their hue thick with leaves.
This is the revelation: there, the blue bag
weighed by want, something
that holds everything inert,
summoning the forest out of the palm
of hills hunched as if turning away
from the violence that hides
behind the blink of light.
The sky will not pass through the gates.
It flies & hovers like a lens on the footpath
to the steps where it will be plucked,
its blue ripening; low slung fruit.
& out of the rustic hut crouching
like an abandoned anthill near the hem
of this flourishing life like a shallow cut
in the reel, the masquerade of this quiet day
peeps about & seeing nothing to stir
but the rut stringing back
to where everything that should be buried
is blurred, it begins to dance.
In the vast cornea of the sky, a white
precipice rises, smoky & stretching,
about to break into rain or not—
maybe a big city zealous in its flames
is warding off eternal night
with reeking moth wings, trying
to survive the deluge of our wingless sleep.