Rare Book

pubbed here

White gloves and no sudden moves. Limited access. Conditions. Steady breathing. Filtered light. Slight buzz of humidity. Careful spine. Paging your butterfly fragility.

Your illuminations are remarkable: crisp and bright as back light. Too clean to laugh; too cool to cry. Your value is vaulted. Innocence preserved.

Jump in my gym bag, dog-ears and all. Pickup-and-gun-racks, girl, lets dance the silverfish, stumble and fall sloppy drunk, write in the margins muddy.

Naked in my garden, contagiously foxing. High as tigers. Cuddly as lambs. Discharged. Worthless. Experience preferred.

Butterfly Love

Via collection

Binnacle UltraShort H.M.

The butterfly lit on the end of my ring finger near the passion vine.  I pulled the little lasso tight.  She fluttered up to the length of her new silk leash like the loveliest of rising kites.

I sensed no panic, no fear of captivity; her buoyancy teased against the weightless tether, somehow knowing I would wine her on nectar and dine her on pollen and bed her tonight in a blanket of thistle down.  I’d thought it through.

We roamed the garden planted for her, reviewing the long sprays, sampling the bright clusters.  She was content to ride with folded wings, princess-like, in black and orange velvet.

Toward dusk we settled on the lawn for the night.  Neither of us could eat.  We went in when dampness reached my bones.

Now I will support her as long as necessary, hand on my heart.  I will let her stitch my fingers together with her sticky thread and wait with her, while she slips into something else.

If only I could see the swelling of her tiny heart and hear it beat.