THIS
for Pearl Pirie
The future’s formation being contingent on whether or not there was irony, several weeks before.
I remember writing this.
How many butterflies inside the light bulb?
The dark night of the soul.
A chicken finds its way across the slick tarmac to the egg.
It has to want to be born.
I remember.
A small movement of the wings of a hurricane.
My ears.
Courage is better than no courage.
In the tree, a shopping bag, a breathful, plastic trembling.
I remember writing this.
A piece of string, a priest, and a Polish firefighter walk.
The dark night.
There is only one parachute.
Light, color, and form are refracted rather than digested by irony.
The butterfly
The chicken.
I remember writing this.
Thanks.
3 comments:
and even with all that's gone on in our little nation, something good can still be found to be said.
and what an attractive hen to go with it.
There's surely an attractive chicken
to go with every kind of light
every mood coming to us from
across the road, from the sky
between our feathers.
sky between our feather. fluffy, unlousy chicken checking out the wing muscle strength, sufficient.
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