PARTS PER MILLION, A SONNET
off in my hands, like a crumb1ing scone,
on the days I find the strength to catch it.
A chorus bellows; I rest on my pulpit.
Rattling leaves, tunnel songs speak to tone.
The breath of the dying resonates scarlet, taupe.
Ceremonial drum counts years, releases them.
Winged creatures ascend to their hovering den.
Would I separate under centrifugal force?
Curtains fold and unfold with the ease of breeze
the color of the inside of a baby's mouth.
Chiselled stone pulled back into a braid. Stout
front meets another of obvious heat, a means
of pushing and pressure. Crack it over your head,
collect the contents, smell it as if it were bread.