I. I was channeled, spoken by that sunburst.

II. Vaulting through wide crevices of noun, our rooms were filled with music.

III.  Only then described by reoccurrence, Jean-Paul Sartre wrote—There Is No
Question—but our spectacle of green. And you were channeled, too.

IV. To vocalize as such, to multiply, that build-up shone among our bodies. Voices shot up through these stems.

V. Voluminous and gossamer, I piled every flower on our altar.

VI. Red flowers then burned.

VII.  In lying down, I glistened. Vestibules were parted, hungering like bushes. Then that sweetness came and left.

VIII. That was our preservation, offering up prayers like a scent. I could not amplify.

IX. Adjacent then.

X. To varnish without drink, to drink without a cup, that water drank us slowly.

XI. Sparrows stuffed into this wall inside our empty room, though nothing more could shock us after 1963.

XII. Then costumes changed. Each sparrow gripped a knife between their tiny beaks. An olive green was varnished, clipped, subsumed just like our own.

XIII.  Who stole away, lastly, each flower from our altar?