Thursday, October 4, 2007

in the morning she thinks about death

There is a heaviness inside tired chests,
laying quiet in the layers of their lair.
The sun has barely stretched its legs
and the sky disguised without color.

They are sleeping caterpillars,
horizontally hung in envelopes,
shaped like babes,
eyes staring, enlivened awake.
One opens her heavied lids and animates
in the morning awaiting.
She sweeps the clouds away like cobwebs
bribing another bestowed breath to be left.

In wanton longing for him to open;
needing an unveiling to laying bare,
she wonders first if irises will grow,
tall
out from beneath the bed
or before,
if falling,
will be snow...

And as melting, for a mumur,
she dissolves to divine,
first she'll see him diffused
radiated as a butterfly,
frozen cast,
pinned without a cocoon,
on the contrasting side of the glass...

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