print versionMICHAEL C. PETERSON
[Something of occupation]
Something of occupation, something about
withdrawal. The lecturer said
that when the bevy wings or lands together—
near–arpeggio—
whether there’s music attached at all, if it
goes, where it goes to go undone,
whether there’s agreement to flight–from—
the question’s wrong.
To die, an emergency. To die by emergency.
A form of this is beauty.
Like blossom. More like shouting from one
end of a lake to another.
Like beating on the lake’s tin surface. Beauty
partly heard is its emergency.
You should know. What our voices called for?
The house like a boat et cetera.
This is what we wanted back. Sea–flake shaken
from her bruised frame:
Blossom–in–a–wind, Terror–which–we–wing–upon. 
[For fury the Penitent may say]
[So long on Tantrum now]
[Something of occupation]
[When gluttony is less than ruinous]