Butterflies Betwixt the Colliding Trains

1
What was said finally
Wouldn’t possibly be
About wings or flying.
When it’s ripped apart and burst forth
The mustard fields go red.
Then pirouette unbridled.

2
What’s with the butterflies
To be betwixt the two trains
That gives each other a smack?
It’s a crash
That can char the chilly fields
And the mud-mountains,
Which flanked the rails.
There’s an unpleasant poem in it.

3
Glance into the distance
And you can see–
The heap of human palms broken off,
As these fancied
To point their finger at one another;
A mount of iris,
Detached from faces, as these
Throbbed to look askance
At your hidden places and your nights;
The sea of severed feet
As these leapt across
To pierce open your bosom.

4
Between memory and sound
Variegated granules
Sunder and drop off
Like the pollen grain.
Do the wriggled out Railway lines
Still have–
That orange and vermilion dust
Of the crushed wings of butterflies?
The red ochre
She laid out from these
On her forehead and clothes?
The finger with three heads
That ripped open the butterflies?