I remember writing this...

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.