Leave a dying bluebottle
it could not breathe the sand
on this path.
A storm coughed up the sting,
far from Cloud Cuckoo Land.
Leave a dying bluebottle
tentacles o’ war whispering,
deadly. In command?
Never, on this path.
Flimsy doll, a plastic thing,
held by the same grief-stricken hand,
that left a dying bluebottle,
alone and shivering.
Wet ribbon, finally at rest and
decorating this path
where I lost my ring.
Before it has poisoned every gland,
leave a dying bluebottle.
If I was bulbous and coiling,
would you think me contraband?
Abandon a dying bluebottle,
on this path.
Flâneuse from aus 