the timbral flickers—
Lara Candland

it is almost morning
the timbral plays cyphers,
squints on freckled orthography

***

autumn’s fleshly epicures dip,
wash down to sinew—
birds have flitted from the brake
rubies, topaz were unrolled then put away—
dull darkle gives way to blot

***

drill into their gilded sepulchres
stooped, yet sublimer
than their couriers in hiding

***

cease fretting:
the bird and her clever peruke
have notched the trees beneath your window—
the dense pouring of winter drops off January’s cliff
hindered winter—vital star—
infant flakes have grown and gone

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