Butter Flies

Your Souls are after the butter
that melts in my mouth, you witches
crawl without legs, break into wings
that swirl into flash and flutter.

Your spirits rise steal the grease
from my tongue, from the churn
of my mouth, turned and turned
thickening the slather of release.

Slather the bread of words,
a heaven of bread, heated in fires
so the belles of hell can ring
their tongues bricolage, be heard

so my soul lifts into gifted air,
a fine frittilary I soar high
in the company of language,
there is briefly no reason to care.