Infinity lifted：
a gasp of emeralds.
I thought I felt
the tall night trees
between them，
no exactitude，
a wait not even
known yet.
I held my violet up；
no smell.
It made a signal squeak
inside， bats，
lisps of pride；
ah， their little things，
their breath： lungs of a painting，
they swept me
in four ways， their square
plans， as I have made
a good square saying，
you I
you not-I
not-you I
not-you not-I，
ritual of hope
whose weight
has not been measured—