by Marc Vincenz
Night dreams of day
and day of that tremulous moment
when red-gold washes
over hills, and trees
whisper pheromones,
coax birds to sing lovesongs
before the rising
are dedicating letters
to distances measured,
traversing mountains chains,
seas crossed, forests conquered,
numbered things—
a weird grouping
of similar or related artifacts
like collectable porcelain angels
in all manner of speculative poses—
to look upon in glass cases
when they have immeasurable time
when they have grown
terribly old.
