The Raven and the Caterpillar





Here, it seems, this
junction
at the Heart of what
is Not; these glorious
heroes
falling through the Cracks
become raw meat
for the bird
on the Mailbox who will grab
the Insect
in its’ talons before it
can become a butterfly
and fly North there Lately
as We aspire
to Longing unkempt
and moody
before the Sky; this
dream of Ill-repute, this
machination
Unsold with jellies floating
in the Sea who
Might sting You -- the
World is in flux, all
is flux though we Cannot
see it, here, where
Our marrow proclaims our Innocence; what
will You do, then, as
She becomes you, Alien
and alone?