Lisa Russ Spaar

baroque hour

In which death yields to style:
ruddled vista humping intricacies

of vines, twinings tombed & calligraphic.
Is this distortion possible only in lies,

folds, the enigmatic golden stall
prose gnaws the edges of—

the cedar nerve blooded by sundown
suddenly become all my self,

one doomed syllable, like young?
Unlike infinity, which has no native tongue?