The softly screeching scream of a butterfly – 8/4/00

When driving upon
does the road not take you in?
and when planting turnip trees
do your merry men play violin?

Poem? That can’t be right
To say the words even though you know ’em
Bright as August light bulb boxes
In the land of time, you do whatever the clock says

So, on coming down from the mountains’ stream
he built a beam that muttered steam only to redeem
the old life he thought he had won
was over before he was done having fun

Four generations comply within space
although he was underground
Out of somewhere twirled a vase
While my mind is still spinning around

8/4/00

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