In the oscillation of an accordion
we were gasping
and the music was gushing
from the gashes of silence,
like fume's tremor
from the cracks of the mirrors,
like my heart
flaming through the bars of its nest
and pouring
from one orifice of silence to the other,
like the figure eights,
like a sand glass,
like a butterfly
who multiplies in the impetus
of its seductive freckles.
Garden gets smaller and smaller
but never less prime
in the deep mirrors of butterfly wings,
in the gasps of their gaps,
in the ambivalence of
their spurs,
in the stretch of the matching mirrors
of everything
and nothingness,
to engulf in living and death
with every breath,
to fill out the blanks with infinity,
the sockets of zeros,
with everlasting appetites
of numbers and degrees,
to gush the
reciprocating mirrors
with music,
poetry,
and
double rainbows.
