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Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Moonrise On Herb Garden

Wake up
There is no butterfly

Ordinary lives are clashing in the shadows—
The dandelions must have their meadow

and I refill my cup from public fountains,
to see myself when I have erred

or eaten too much print
or not enough, I never know

How many of us, open as a photograph,
a pose waiting for its meaning to be seen

remain in doubt as the color fades?
falling, pink as hippos in the serenity of sunlit days

before the football game, a thrill-a-minute stunner,
winds down to an intercepted prayer

It’s five p.m. It’s Sunday. And there’s rain
(Like a moving sky I can’t remember where you changed)

Extrapolate what you want
Things aren’t like they ever were

Great seasons pass through a year in a day—
blossoms pulping in April gutters

sitars in the duodenum of June
bright autumns bluer than Tahitian pearls

December madness, December blues,
blossoms pulping in April gutters

Moonrise over the herb garden
Wake up Here comes the butterfly

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