Metaphor

There is a star near         the hinge of planets,         a barn under         a cow's lick of moon -         plausible people         moving thru an         airless universe.         Pay attention to the frond of lilac         . . . limestone troughs upon which         thickets of Indian scalp &         devil's paintbrush soar         to the horizon         and, afterwards,         little creeks run         with the sparrows of evening time         in step to tiny boatmen         that echo enamelled snails         from the very consonants of earth.         Rustle of leaves,         some might argue         breathless gasps         to intone the savagery         of little seasonal voices         cut off         mid-stream.         A spate of bees,         early colonizers         deflower blossoms and         strip-mine lava butter of erupting         hard-shell tulips:         such careless penetrations -         volcanic intrusions entomb         their hairy bodies caked with         the iron-lung of blackened soot petals,         each a cough drop         on the heaving breath         of a declining afternoon.