to butter the cups

let this appetite wander with the dog            
so not collared,  in sovereign heat      
  where no howl falters        
           
on spirit bed-thrown sheets, spread skin-deep              
  linen lain, they scrawl;              
  and limbered up              
entwined with the dust-bowls within their twirls.              
             
each beast nose-kissed,            
each more tender than the last              
humbled to know that this has never been more              
than finding that perfect architect              
           
on what walls of interior design could              
straighten the coves;           landscape a home        
and decorate its mantles              
with buttercups of May.