Tennessee: We are here, between trees,
with the tempo of a rosary being strung
in a queue of escalating beads —
Carolina: It’ s not quite the count in
the countinghouse of my chest
but the heart does make an awful attempt
t: and a circle wherever it may be
there was music coming on
c: which though machinery-like
moves not in cogs, and never
springs, but waves through
t: like wired applause for antic backstage
buds on the pre-comeuppance buzz; but it
fades
c: but only after the chorus has pulsed
t: it drops off with sudden decision, like fountain
water gone dross
c: or it reaches the furthest point
the branch turns from us, and is for some arc
fully quiet...
t: until the roulette snaps its jaw and the choir’ s
circuit opens to one
c: like a pigeon unhinged, its wings
in sudden white-rumped ascent
t: unopposed by iridescence
c: unopposed by iridescence