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Wow. I skipped Applied Literary Criticism this morning and my acting class was canceled. So today was basically like a weekend. Nifty. 😉 I called Chance and it looks like we’re gonna practice, so the show will probably happen.
The Butterfly in the Mill
A clattering cacaphony of saws and shears.
Sawdust billows breathlessly through the air
and mingles with the stench of
men, and grease, and caustic exhaust.
Boards clatter into sanders one at a time —
the slamming strangely arrhythmic. A saw whines
as it slices boards into manageable lengths.
The shrill whistle of a forklift slashes
through the random heartbeat of the mill.
The parching dust now fills the mill
and fills the air inside and outside the
men. A window is opened.
Butterfly wings
Gossamer things.
About her the slamming continues —
each noise falls off of her beat,
so harsh compared to the perfect time
of her fluttering wings.
She graces a belt sander until
it eats the next board. then she is
away.
She draws a path through the mill,
loopinging, cresting, coming abreast
of everything.
Straight lines bleak corners white paint
She finds her window and leaves and
again
the mill is a mill.
Tags: Poetry
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