We Go Seven Now

We go seven magics ways like clouds say tomorrow’s another passage of the mountain’s eye from levels known and wandered to the sky. And there are not inquisitors, their envelopes developing in the spilt tea of afternoon solace, light, birds who no more ‘sing’ than water ‘waves’. We go seven fingers of a dream like trees who favor sudden strangers on the branch or stem, whose leaves are lives and wings are stars, these volatile transits. These planets. This Mars. We go seven days like dear mothers of eyes, whose hands fashion cradles whose forms none despise; a light in the children, beyond all compare, the question, the wonder, the murder, her stare.