Stick figures marching in procession through woodedness—meadows—sunlight leaf-drink drip droplets scattered moonshine, gregarious all the veins, the flocking of fleece we hide in—our selves crickle crack snap like twigs under the Boot.
The old woman who lived in a shoe sang dirges doing dishes served drudgery up with butter and toast. The Boot crunch, crush, dishrag limp bag you call me old bag and I say tis only a shroud, chrysanthemum.
Lilybirds flutter at my throat with rubies clutched in their beaks. A sparking bud of true. Juice the night open, slide sweet and pliant on your back, be open to Her, drain away the Drano, it’s clogging your pores. Become porous and malleable around your inner delicate twigs, the birdboned farmhouse called
Fascist: a strong word I know but comes the Boot, comes the boulder, whistle your saxophone breath, your blues are your breadwinner. Let the night spiral around you, grip cups with furtive fingers, bring faery elixir to your lips. Join strands of leaf-hands into rattley sheath, march onward, into the city.
When you get there build bridges, build books, build fires everywhere.
Your rags are your coat, hang the blooming diamonds from the eaves, gather your bushels with all us Eves and remember your name that resilient grew under the Boot. Do not try on the boot, do not collect the bones for bristling, let the etchings dissolve under the acid of goat eyes and cream eccentric into a bowl, make it your breakfast.
Break fast away from the hollowland, stronghold of static, the limpid light of flickering screens. Remember your moss, your lichen, liverwort tea.