Stairs Like Seven Years

Like your stairs were seven years of music long lain listening inside those clouds of colored fish, like dogs whose limbs dissemble from lithe forms should they advance upon the air. A leg, a tail. A floating ear. Small, diverging teams of lost eyes. These endless shapes reflected, daylit through dark elixir, a stark extraction of directions thundered, sundered and respected. These stolen Africas whose numbers they might start to speak, yet stutter, then fall dead into disaster’s structured histories, so perfectly exemplary, their languages distracting as our mercies are defective. And this, like sentence held to bear imprudent implications raw and true, the halfbright witness tells a starry murder’s misframed purpose, all asunder, wrecked; now shattered like the chalice graced with heaven’s dew. The babes yet born before they did begin; I, your seven stairs of music, years long hands, and lain inside wise wings, and inside these fierce mysteries.