they say bulls are fighting my butterflies
in the warmish snow of my bed
but the sword is still held high
and allowed to freely and sweetly sweat
that’s the scene you pay to see
in the theatre of the absurd
housed in the shade of an apple tree
clothed with the song of a songless bird
you wish you could get silk wings gored
by butterflies in a puddle of joy
bad luck though you can’t find your sword
you have nothing but your tongue to employ
it’s the butterflies you’re supposed to lick
and sing laconic bull wings with a full throat
catching their hymn just in the nick
of time before it outgrows your coat
when bulls are fighting butterflies
there’s nothing else for you to do
but unbind the tricky clock that ties
you to the horn of an impromptu
