bursts of summer and yellow-eyed butterflies and
a chiseled sculpture, worn down, flat like a stiff tuxedo cuff,
risen and engraved in the hearth of hard dirt wetted by rain
with wood stumps like starfish
be dazzling grey roses, dried and wrapped in baby thorn coats
winding round drooping oak trees colored ashy.
spanish moss in fat heaps draping gracefully down
to the jasmine suckled iron gate, rusted bled mauve,
a woman’s birdcage made from driftwood and bone.
alone dangling off a cracked branch. the gutty belch of thunder,
like a hand, inviting inne, a gold knob like a hump shivering
sprouts out by rocks rounded perfect by ancient winds
softened gleeful by cool spurts of vivid june, bugs
hollow and stuck to froth webs, glued leaves to glossed dews
the spinal pickets quiver, begin to unbraid the itty door
swinging open, a ghastly glimpse into wind, a clattering mouth,
legs with winding limbs of stems straddling nests, eggs, rattling,
the blast of crisp distant lightning scything,
ocean smothered face, grappling the paling birdcage door
swinging open as the blackening nails of drifting evening
dampen wincing hedge stones, molding
an egret with an egress, stoned rose eyes unspiraling,
unearthed rods of rust gates despining, abysm unholing the
inne open, for You, to undewly pass.