Into the wild, a clover field calls for help
it hasn’t seen daylight for six months straight
dew drops are on metronome duty again
and stalagmites play xylophone to spirits
I walk right through souls with sangria breath
The hunt for four clovers is as natural to me
As lying facedown in damp thistles
How does fate work when fate designates
who picks up the four clover of good fate.
My breath forms mist that lies low:
And through white shadows, a father an a daughter
Crouch low over a Nymphalidae-
one on the ground and a hundred and eight million
in the wind inspiring tornadoes to incarnate.
The daughter learned to write songs in those trips
to the wild.
From the temple of the cedar trees,
Dryads sing and dryads dance,
And in a flutter of the butterfly wings, the mist is gone.
Through the shadows, an apparition is all that remains
It looks just like the Father,
after a prophet’s trip to Medina.
I know overcorrection is an art conquered by
victims of defection,
the daughter writes songs with cigarette ashes too
And yet every once a full moon,
she seeks the apparition of the dying Nymphalidae
under which lies the four clover
of a rotten fate,
Every once a while, it’s easier to sing songs to the dead.