Wake up
There is no butterfly
The dandelions must have their meadow
and I refill my cup from public fountains
to see myself when I have erred, open as a photograph--
a pose waiting for its meaning to be seen
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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