The Seventh P{art(Icle) } Poem by Adora Williams

How the language talks to the ether that composes me
And projects itself in front of me
Angles in Plato — double three-dimensional
Reflected in broken glass and dewed grass
In autumn days
I wish someone could understand

There are five hundred pages written in daisies over
The last three-times-written-nine days that wanted deliverance
From the stamen
They wanted to fly and perish
Become one with the air

Words on the untidy desk

I understand daisy petals
They chose liberty and art over cohesion

My words are my legacy of visions
Only seen under the advent of the day if you leave
The stage and look in a certain way at 4 pm
And they play around in the ethers
By the rule of random accidents
That sustained this magnificent mise en scène
That one day will perhaps become

Act