Thursday, August 25, 2011


White butterflies are fluttering in the tall grasses in twos.

Every morning she tells me what she sees.

(She is out where he was.
Men go by led by dogs.
One tree is missing with its nests of orioles.
Blue jays haunt the cedar by the door.
Her body is the shape of the sun.)

Nothing is remarkable where the dead view the living .

There the living would believe it is night.

(25 August 2011)

No comments:

Post a Comment