Catenary

Those cherry trees over there know it’s not Spring. 
Marcel tore this quickly.  It is in front of the paper
that the template suggests a shape of
some gentle hour.  The velvet one.  Picking at the grass
in a plush corner of the meadow, looking for sheep
too abstract for words in a painter’s sky.  Fleecy clouds
scraped or
flayed,

with the start-up
commotion of an image coming unhinged.  Lawn chains
studded with stars hang in pendulous sleep.  Who is that masked
man hovering by close, as the swags of vamping music
sink,
gently so
in the art-free zone?  Green moths meanwhile
decamped Garibaldi’s beard.  We kept
to columns of cool, mixing it up,
culminating

in an atmosphere of deft moves on both sides.  An erased
canyon.  Attic moonscapes.  Waning or waxing?