to the forward foot, under a bench,

sweet coral bubble, paddling puddle of pollen,

made of stillness, one toe forever forages,

I speak none, no one’s,

while red branch sighs overt cursive


a plucking shape made by two, three birds,

without knock, a gate of feet waits

& under blue

always the forward foot

& remember the yellow wall, duel shadow, few

& always what I speak

is not of color