Stoop Marsh; Moving in for March 1st or Lies and Butterflies (in progress)
The way supple sirens bounce
the round taurus down a tidal creek,
visage shrieking frequencies
visible on an impossibly still
looking glass of marshwater.
Such a calm beauty bathing
lies with butterflies
and better lies
and sulfur in the air
but not in the wine.
Camped on branches
heavy with water
struggling to bolster young love
with awkward kisses
so low above the ground
without the lift of innertubes.
The responsibility rests gnarled elbows
to take root between the coarse grasses
by roosting plovers and digging fiddlers.
Sponge-like and soon saturated,
the branchling buckles under it's own weight
to dig fingers in again and so on;
stolons ad nauseum.
These are not butterflies,
these are fears
these are drunken constructions
these are patches and patchwork
these are a few of my favorite things
that you don't do.
but I am charlatan
and not the namesake of cities and rivers
and i am not yet nauseous
but i am sick with
nomenclature and nostalgia
for a time before last
the smiles before cynicism
the miles of conservation before criticism.
No, these are not butterflies
though they spread with
beauty befitting flight.
These are willows.
Don't they hang swarthy with
gothic architecture of Spanish moss
and such strange fruit
in the clutches of widow's webs
and other carpetbaggers
cotton-picking in a mismanaged reconstruction?
Was this your good idea?
Was this so much beauty
behind a freckled smile and a sun dress
fair and supple beneath the suns tresses?
Did you see i blemish like you
though mostly on the inside?
A surly foil to your winged daisy
and confused with desire
wondering what's between an angel and a siren,
floating downstream in the willow's shade?
Is it wings and sun dresses and freckles
and is that a good idea?
the round taurus down a tidal creek,
visage shrieking frequencies
visible on an impossibly still
looking glass of marshwater.
Such a calm beauty bathing
lies with butterflies
and better lies
and sulfur in the air
but not in the wine.
Camped on branches
heavy with water
struggling to bolster young love
with awkward kisses
so low above the ground
without the lift of innertubes.
The responsibility rests gnarled elbows
to take root between the coarse grasses
by roosting plovers and digging fiddlers.
Sponge-like and soon saturated,
the branchling buckles under it's own weight
to dig fingers in again and so on;
stolons ad nauseum.
These are not butterflies,
these are fears
these are drunken constructions
these are patches and patchwork
these are a few of my favorite things
that you don't do.
but I am charlatan
and not the namesake of cities and rivers
and i am not yet nauseous
but i am sick with
nomenclature and nostalgia
for a time before last
the smiles before cynicism
the miles of conservation before criticism.
No, these are not butterflies
though they spread with
beauty befitting flight.
These are willows.
Don't they hang swarthy with
gothic architecture of Spanish moss
and such strange fruit
in the clutches of widow's webs
and other carpetbaggers
cotton-picking in a mismanaged reconstruction?
Was this your good idea?
Was this so much beauty
behind a freckled smile and a sun dress
fair and supple beneath the suns tresses?
Did you see i blemish like you
though mostly on the inside?
A surly foil to your winged daisy
and confused with desire
wondering what's between an angel and a siren,
floating downstream in the willow's shade?
Is it wings and sun dresses and freckles
and is that a good idea?