Jessie Branch
Summer Lipograph

What sound has mistook words--
A sound that says minds lapsing
A shift in hours with days passing
Without thought again.

Obscuration abounds,
Its shadow ghostly among saplings
And saplings bring to mind humans
with confusion dividing among us.

Us, thinning out, without infinity
But thoughtful. Dying is not
Trivial or callous,
Just tiring, a spirit burn,

Fantasy constructs walls around
Actuality, think of a sunny mind in woods,
Ambiguous karma fulfilling our acts,
Carrying out instructions to scrupulously--

Too much lag to stop now--with frost, sound
Of cold stars on a window, broad motions
Talk about this actuality that is not big at all.
Walking down a flight of stairs

To a narrow brim atop surf. Is this it,
This iron comfort, impartial taboos,
Or did you aim for that as you lull? And a mask
Mirrors yours, that which is cast back in drink.