Contours

Birds hoarse and arrayed in distance echo
the misted recess of this valley’s morning -
resonant, like the pulp-thud and wobble
of my book: packed, clamped and patterned
with print. Pregnant like the hollow pock
and clatter of a box of chocolates
meltworthy-bitter in their scented card.
We, gloating, pour over legends
mouthing names like the thing itself -
scaled or contoured rich in lines
and all other codes of heaving surface.