What decides the plain, the folk
from an abstraction of the jungle
and sorted through filch and facts
and darts of logic? What derides
the gulch, the periphery of the
unsung, but the bard, the poem’s
math done for the sake of the pen.
What gives form the languor of
form, the sweep and swing of it
is the float of a butterfly’s
thrust, its widespan of dare &
snatch of an eyelid shut, a broad
sash of light with slit vertebrae.