the cart is filled with butterflies;
this song is filled with trauma.
there is a rainbow shooting arrows in the sun.
there is rain in the eye of wind
but let us ignore all of these
& return to the cart,
buttered in the grime of noon.
let us gesticulate at the shadows
like treasure hunters coming up for air.
There is a crab cooking in the sand;
an oyster builds a pearl in the dream of a coconut.
the cart has laughter for lunch
& children run around like fire on dry wind.
the man holds his home in his hands.
he calls it life.
he calls it death.
death has three wheels & a whine.
the butterflies are blue & black like bruises,
& when moth wings burn in the candle drug,
they always titter like lazy birds
picking ladybugs from flowers; dandelions
& lilies white as teeth.
the man holds his cart like escape,
like a promised land of distance & hope.
the cart holds him like an explosion,
the sun is going down,
the children are retracting into the toy box,
the bruises are yellowing like leaves
returning to the branches of slow streams.
the man did not wait for night to come
before he caught the night wind back into his overcoat,
climbed into his shadows
& faded the alley with a brush of his peeping toe.
Yours always,
Osahon (warpedpoetic)
