Mutiny in a backwood

We sleep with our own derision

stalking upon sleight of penitence.

A troubadour buckles down, trapping a moorhen
 –

strangling it then unfurling its wings

as one would lay out the wings of a Ulysses butterfly.

 

He sidesteps a flannel flower,

pushing through dense backwoods.

His face rubicund, belly just as stout;

the bird’s neck, dangling from its downy trunk – 
pendulous, then still.

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