an angelita swings
from bars on high:
baboon baby with no shred of guilt,
bars that grab the pinkened sky,
flushed amber:
loving it completely
to death.
but
arms and legs
do not coordinate,
fail to connect
with her mind's reckless desires
as those bars start to slip away
and a fresh veil of clouds
plays hide go seek with the sun.
her grip falters
and she spins down to earth,
landing on feet
padded with nothing save
satin spun by butterflies.
