One day I'm going to Jive

i.

Crinolins (plural!) with everything
And
bows all the way up my limbs
And
Buttons down the centers of paths that we undo
and there find another - I want to call them Harbingers,
feeding off tiny harp pods that sprout out of the carved
palaces in the pearl-bubbling caverns of the sea

the whisker face fins of the Harbingers running over
the upgrowths
which are every string every musician ever
broke by feeling so deeply

ii.

It's not sitting in chairs like how I turn it into a disappointing
ballpoint pen, cracked plastic, chewed by who knows who

It's not stepping and standing, breathing and crying (though these are closer)
It's not turning pages and clicking and sitting in chairs again

Throw them All down the stairs! Every chair you can find. How many will fall the same. Which ones will turn and damage the sidewalls more deftly. Who will wait
at the bottom and run as they threaten, or as they stall
All these clear from your hard-hat head, face, throat

iii.

Need a straight back for Jiving, probably
Need a backbone made of buttons, cool in the night air
A face as right as rain (not a cliche to me, nor mine)
Those crinolins, I'm going to bring them back in
for, at the age of five I felt what the softest white silk
felt like in layers at my ankles, just before the t-strap of
heart-shaped shoes
but it was a rental. In my mind it had Aaron's breastplate but
in white (a hint of swans feathers in the fabric)
with marroon ribbons
And, that kind of holiness, somehow, locked In

iv.

...(not ready to finish this one yet)