Transposing the thoughts pinned

under a grumbling stomach’s suggestion
of shepherd’s pie into what thrawn thoughts
that a corkscrew might bare witness to in 
teasing a twist-off bottletop open—
 
The totality of life’s
expressed in a tendril 
of starlight lapping a
chipmunk’s back. Now,
 
why would there be any
more than that—So envious 
of the trees, she was, and yet, 
she, daily, staged a play on
 
bristling staves stuck stock-stiff,
static—erratically tweaking the
blocking weekly. She, who could,
should she but choose to, twist all
 
the air into chaff or grist or tinder
or tenderness teeming in seas of no-
see-ums; would rather pretend that 
she’d been offended in 
 
how many awkwardly doddering 
ostinatos stuck stitching her breaths
together—her breath no more 
than a germ implored to just
grow or go but the way
             of the dodo—
 
Hunted though she was by what
smug stage hands stressing the stage’s
strained limitations strangely 
taped to the floor all the
colors of Goebbels and
gore-porn, should she
tease the duvetyne
curtains twain and
see what twine-
rigged rafters 
dandled, thr-
eadbare dr-
egs of but
stale Spanish
moss she’d all
but forgotten she’d
sheepshanked over her
earlobes, groomed to a
ginger nostalgia—sepia
ink shot free in her stellar
defense of how reckless her
blocking must seem to them, those
still sporting but duvetyne black upon
black to disperse like sugar or salt or just
cornstarch over illumining backdrops—
cornstarch some find freaking the innards
of latex gloves made oddly embossed with these
waspsnest, candydot fingerprints rougher than
bloodclots teased into seizing scabs—but a plant
wound up in a flesh-colored plastic sack mistook
for the firmament mostly.