OBrien - Metropole

Grab our missing spears and begin
to think the Bohemian Grove, trees,
theatricals, songs that hold exquisite
filterings of sunlight down to the boys
were women there in the powerful glades,
in the 20s, there's nothing like it, to have
loins for the first time running around
in leaves, in the 70s I sang a song of we
became ourselves again as women, specifically
houris, the leaves of love falling
by chopper and could see the security cordon
of leaves running around excited to be
playing a part in the hush of the woods
Donald called me songbird and to be fit
for the world one must periodically leave it,
affectionately, for the age and straightness of trees
in the 80s, whispering at the clearing's edge
about how to keep both houses, no one hurt
when respect is earned by singing a short theme
in the 40s, at the tree line, theatricals, excited
to be putting on a helmet and running around
in the dark, on my knees in the sun
being told as a group what to do about
how soft I was, the pillows in my chamber
with choppers landing and a glow through the trees
spread uncomfortably around the clearing
till there's nothing like it, going missing
and the distance you begin to think, respect
hushing the woods with a part to play
blacked out in the secret authority
of choosing a heavy gold dress to wear
over on the other side of the clearing
songs hold the men like houris
for the first time leaving the world
affectionately at play in choppers and leaves
no one is hurt at the edge of themselves
running from the news of sunlight
into heavy dresses the warriors wore
for a production of the 50s, absence of birdsong
there in the powerful soil.