Slow drag—
forest——otica
A camera embedded in
the eye
of a butterfly’s hind wing captures
gilded swans choking on cream.
I can’t see the trees for the ugly irises.
Like a honey thief flying at ground level,
I gorge on the secret source of a runaway
brook I have tied to a string. Night in nothing
but a sheer blue blindfold idles down
the hoof track. Those bitch reins. I’m a floating dock
on a shame lake. Me and the Highway Man,
two insomniacs under our Victrola tent.
The sky, a lap dance of stars. The constellations:
a gown for a green wife on all fours. A hangbird
on a branch sips from the acorn’s bitter cup and trills:
love-laughs-at-locksmiths
love-laughs-at-locksmiths