We were all given the same words and a pen   
like one bulb to heat a cathedral 
and the same subject  forever  our part of it  
ways to describe the combed clouds 
and their brightening denials  pollinators  
finding by infrared the scentless flower 
Purpose was a sense of self and the world  
at the same time made of leaves and spaces 
all right there in Barbara’s yard  sun fired arms  
of the harpist angel  martins in a pagoda on a pole 
space bent by asparagus and capillaries  
small muscles holding pen to paper like a torch  
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