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J51-0003-SUB It was a poppy made of bone that hung in the night and I picked it as the sky came down playing a black tune on the white keys. J51-5062-SUB If I were to smell the blue this morning and the color of the hour turned like the clock to other colors if I were to get inside the clock and feel yellow black whatever through the cogs and the tocks what shades would fall out of my face to stain daylight the white mantel the irises of your eyes? L12-0438-MAIN Matins, we said, matins and morningsides an alba even at evensong — whatever the stars recall, whatever they intend is the thing to consider, even if the world must come to not a lot more than it is. w