I pray your wire will wind me 
hard as an iron conch. Too often reeling— 
no orbit to my planet: 

My lovelorn handkerchief 
has frayed. My ear-graph 
only gathers sighs. I’ve given up 

on what’s inside. From the wrong, 
let me rise into organized zephyrs, 
as beautiful as your prescription. 

Cloudless afternoons will align 
my brow. Soldiers ring my fields 
with classes morning, noon. 

On refined nights, I persevere 
in the race for a design. 
Yet, I bungle. On repeat 

within the dingy cycle 
of wash and supervise. 
Until a golden sun arrives— 

my forgotten treasure of agency— 
whose singers belt eject, 
dine on your green aches. No time 

is eligible for perfecting. 
Even the king forgets his line. 
Nourishment erects 

the splendid trope of choir. 
When they sing, Aroma in her kingdom 
rides the air, turning rue 

into monarch capes and glorious gowns. 
I am a charming student 
of the rules but for my ills.