A canopy of locusts under the streaming subscription of fun loving violence

where stars dare of form between the patter of our eyes, like duets on stage, keening
holding paces for tears behind doors along the coveted closet space factory moonlight
where a country never dares of rise against totalitarianism, scared to disturb 9 – 5 butterflies
not after the milkweed has been strategically allocated, for years, for capitalist blanket-foilds

oh, those 9 – 5 butterflies will cruise along the shore and still rouse the beach-view cameras
never knocking over the orderly trashcans still picked up on Wednesdays, bayberry leaves
under the best we could give for weekend marches with the Jones’s, fettered alliances between,
star-like boosts into your timeline of love, grace and misfortune dreamers who don’t need inhalers or
medication

excellent health never daring to protect the contact-context for that earned extra $5 an hour butterflies
knowing you will take pity on us after the dusk settles, and living under the assumption that happens
all while we know that will never happen, knowing you, seeing you all our lives, witnessed cowardice
complaints of side-socket window frame locusts just streaming in the evening, fun loving violence
carts of sullen microwave weddings