My purpose plurals,
purls into many mirrors.
I want some self at the end
of the day, an urban design of mine
own wants & ways forward
without hurting more than necessary.
To be fruitful & rueful & multiply the lie
that you can promise to retain
a feeling, as if we weren’t more
than some sunflowers slutting for light.
We paid to wander a maze of them
one summer, a field senseless with hyperbolic
bloom, & bees aswarm
stinging us for haunting the wrong
paradise. & we ran, people in a hurry,
little grace notes stuttering toward music,
toward an utterly settled song,
this last point of scatter.
On earth as it is in heaven.