Fountain

Damon Pham

It evolves its tirade in the night-park, shedding for no one.
Gallant sashes foam it a crown then trails of slashes after.
Spirited winks are making aqua upon the cement.

Dark leaves nearby scratch out their verdance.
A falling constellation betrays some thousand fates.
The whole buzz is heirless, blazing, it’s non-directional.

        There’s an array of receptors on a cavern’s far wall,
        each in salute for a signature along the scroll-current

        but it’s not too ordered, it’s chords, rumors, surmise,
        hair, egg drop, drool: nothing counts on reciprocity.

There’s no one walking by now to admire its stranded labor.
Aerated greeting, its subtraction from itself for some tell.
What memory it asks to help reanimate by its trace chlorine

electric, like no one wished for it, prior touch and even sight.
Such motion would outspeed the sturdy planes overhead.
There’d be a floor reopened and it would continue to decant.