When indespant and lonse,
the words open up
and breathe on me
barthey verses, to which I’m wont.

Panoramic, juncted words –
brandished in copper,
malleable to the heart of trees
that shade the summer sun.

But sometimes sotted into mine,
the gold babuery of a balmy poet-
meant to insinuate and/or describe,
the otherwise abstract baptivized.

And other-sides in the silence
of a toiling stone wall,
an unlikely salving to soothe-
a compote of strength and solitude,

something only a barthey verse could do.