Little Flexional

The mark is there
in the complex working air,
the purple of the modal
leaf is black
against its corrugated square.

The mark is there,
what maker I can scarcely
dream about
disturbs the manifold
leaves jimmying the glare off

around us. Whatever
is trying to come clear
strained within
its goads, the whole
disbanding atmosphere,

but where
the nuclear seed-fern veers
its coils, instances—
something must have forged against itself.
The mark is there.

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