I am simply a sound, rearranging the particles slowly,
dusting gently the shelves in the attic of cranial chatter,
putting things in their proper relation and place. I am only
the invisible note getting right to the heart of the matter.
Think of me watching the hour of violet crumble
downward on leaves, sad that none touched the curve of the sky;
eyelids surrender your features to indigo, humbled.
Butterflies dream in the nothing between you and I.