Songs are burning at this moment, spilling out upon the page in sun-patterns, or like an earth full of roots. Lingering in our glasses is winter and its six-sided chemical, moon-white. Teardrops fall upon your page of mathematics describing the dark red medicine of the future, but far over the orchard there is a new growth of stars. Night is certain of your pulse, and photos of glory in America are like pink smoke touching our cellophane hands. Somewhere deep inside of us, colors crash down upon the Oliver Goldsmith Telescope in the grove. Angels respond furiously.