a burr in me the honey-stone     the sweet solidity
the axis also in the open mouth that splits what’s
seen and doubles it     a crystal on a piece of paper
with a line that parallels itself     the ray on ray
of sun through forest corridors that fill with pollen
in the wind gold    cloud of random sex that moves
toward me and clarifies the rectitude of light how
rightness is a time of day     how any bead of sweat
or cum can streak an isinglass of lemon quartz
along the inner thigh the mind     is dry and shuts
the eye like suppurated sleep you gently hold
my chin to pluck from me this spur of dream this
topaz crust      a poem is    a surfacing to look
and see the pollen on your breast I brush and lode
the ridges of my thumb the self     an inadvertent bee   
a cumulus I cannot help or cloud     of libraries
of seed     of protocol commanding me to grow more
orderly     anthologist of images the compound corymbs
in the ditch beside the uncut pines that rise beneath
a triple-tiered transceiver mast and randomize
the air with yellow media     the veils we breathe and
cannot read and fuck     in hopes of clarity     that this
might structure us this    vivid gentleness     the mouth
a lightweight prism on the page that multiplies
a single word into a hierarchy     a law where there
was only burr before now    odes and documents
and loyalty to family     a life in place the way
a grave-mound isn’t made with just a basketful
of earth nor cloud without a latticework of hanging ice
that hides and shows and hides and shows the light

Kylan Rice lives in North Carolina. His writing has been published or forthcoming in a variety of literary journals, including Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Tupelo Quarterly, and Kenyon Review Online, among others. He has studied poetry at Colorado State University and UNC-Chapel Hill. He is the author of Incryptions (Spuyten Duyvil 2021) and An Image Not a Book (Parlor Press / Free Verse Editions 2023).