Branches, Bitter
You sting still with oak switch
melody, a creaking, careening half-sorted
thing of pretense to push, pull-apart
like children's building block etched
spectrum, your lips still dying to draw
pale blue-eyed passions on ambassador
brick walls in the slightly shaped, inviting
curves of unplanned sprawl, dressing gown
hem line in how, at one time, just
a right angle of porch light can
seduce us all, just a first push to
illusion can be a start to grand falling,
but for the bramble bush of thorny
crime, but for the beloved turn of
eyelash curl to tabulation, calculation,
broken by formula this manner and that,
until its pieces shone bright,
mortuary bone and sticker tags
on sterile glass, but for the cuckoo
clock anatomy revealed of gears and
theatrical spark: so simple the tick
to youth's hands, comprehended,
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