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Nathan Thomas

A Collective Counterpoint



           dreams are born in the skull,


music in the skeleton. and wild


            sententiae follows the wind.


           notes of assonance, the hyacinth’s syntax


buds in Hopkins. 


cutting into compounds 


           we explore what pastures 




           morphemes, phonemes,


in which land will they roll?


           strewn flowers, will you carry 


the scent of lovers’ 


           suspended bodies?


           springing up 


in silent letters, will you tell, make visible, 


the collectively felt sound


           of counterpoint? 


which syllabic animals graze amongst you now?


the sky tending to its pink, frame


           by frame, turns its light onto burials,


onto the shimmering elision 


           of the-everything-said,


the pulsating, in and out of focus 


           chiming of unfurling.


with faith in marginalia,


           in the fringe of the mother-tongue, 


                                                                               let sleep

                                           spill from sea-blossom, green 

                                                                               in snow.

                                    let sleep,

                           green in snow, spill 

                                   from sea-blossom.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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