Butterflies in a gag of buns, in a cool scream,
ganging in one sleeve, finely dusted and paper-thin—still on the tailor’s
mannequin. Tiny, black threads show,
conservatively snipped. We must be quiet, not helix any wind—There are
so many soldered pins—
Four brown wings titter (under some dead leaves) tutelage. And not stop.
Now into a clearing they go, to spindle in the sun
with the mutts. The tree that follows in mercy,
in clear blood falls—The waiter that slides beneath, with crisp cuffs.
Now we must think of everything, the lunar calendar stippled in their trim.
Mustn’t babyfatten even a tic of volume, my whole happiness
rises on one breath, on a tossed plate and flashing
its hills and garnishes of bilge.
from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library
Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.