In bunglesome moments I unspool braids
of our bloom coiled in an attic of our mak-
ing. Subito your inscape attaches itself to
mine. From this seam emerges melic tunes.
My self-serious temper overdubs these into
prosodic entries. The bliss of divvying up
with one's leitmotif has its beat. It bolsters
self-admiration: donnée for another distich.