How Many

In reflected specimens pinned
On breathable blissful backings
Encased in transparent glasses
Of patience in wooden frames carved
In subtle waves, smoothly surfaced,
Sprouting prides at cornered edges
In horizontal and vertical lines, curving
In entrails of ignorant rampages
In steeping concaves and convexes
Where beneficiaries lie in vexations
Of dustily powdered venous wings
Of wrongs ignored in dotted patterns
In scalloped ends lined with white,
Amongst orange blares of “what” ’s hinted
In slated violets in the brackets of “the fuck” ’s
Of irregular circular strokes in repetitions
Of unrefined or naturally splotchy markings
Of absences balking in darkened earthly matters.
In antennae of stacking contrasting perceptions:
Yearnings to rip my own feathered hollows.