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Clade Song Left


Coming to the heel-lift of daylight       hours now,
when    invocation becomes     evocation,

and everything’s yellow, and
everything is    lowering,                    
first      to the street then past it- to      
earth crust and ultimately         to sleep. Gold
chains & coinage
come up from the throat.

Happens everyday, the deep gemtone pith caviar
of a reminder,             says: express
a profusion of  sweet                  seeds
in gratitude to the         fortuitous missteps.

(So often          I can’t wring
one      rag’s    yield
from a poem, am not unburdened
of         even one                      mineral occlusion)

but missteps pop onto the scene                        a flock of stars,
and word whets the moment,the cosmological          meadow sometimes
teems with bugs. Good things you know.

So it’s not only                        the
belt      of genuflecting            seeds,              
the gila monster’s         languid drag,

it’s that                         with     every eye closed even the mouth
(did you know that every lizard is a
dagger,                        hatch’d)

even the palmy frond of                      fingers
(every palm an ascendant jet,   of green blades)

even the thorax like an old       birdcage
(some creatures make  
a low smoldering sound in repose)

We really         can see then,    the paean sound in color.
& Life presses back,     smearing,  unguent,  hot.






Clade Song Right

Allison Hummel is based in Los Angeles. Her work has recently appeared in Wax Nine, Dream Pop, Cordite Poetry Review and Flag + Void. Work is forthcoming from Landlocked and new sinews.