a little song

plowed mist tangled the machine
chromed rose in the inelegant
child's smooth hand
just then blue petals fall on
a blue line
in the making
above the fragile brain's ribs
ruffled freckles
everything in
alphabetical order
trespasses over the
inner self that knows itself
not
only the lovely way along the abyss
inviting every step and
a red tree house
for the piper
with the answers
the exit
in chains
can't bite
the face unsexed
storm clouds and clouds of smoke
rust old photographs
and old words hiding in the brush
are hushed
looking up a copper fly
on a pine is
locked to a little song