Feste's Lute

Bo Peep’s
gone spare.
In open air her
ram parts sell
high-grade
at varying rates…
Their expiration
dates from
four-fourteen
-twelve to
some Springtime
unheard of.
Her lair waits…
lush lintels
flushed deeply
to save sons,
birth order forsakes
fast the lost ones.

There’s so little movement.
The swings becalmed on
chain-links, tired of endless
branches —
pruned arguments
go to ground with
not even a
rustle of grass.