On Flight

All around there is blue. This color is called
How Small You Are. The flowers free-wheel
it. It’s spring, after all and they spread seeds

like dangerous love. There is no song
for their passing. The birds are still
as if the cat wasn’t already dead by then,

victim of its own demise. Even hollow
bones weigh enough to bring you straight
to the enemy’s mouth when the wind dies.

Clear-winged butterflies care less about danger
than their own beauty, the reflected spread
of ancient gods, littered with light.

Oh, the things a sheet of glass has saved us from.
We were never here together. Our winged mouths
flutter frantic indents along the windowed acres.


It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image taken with iPhone, in the botanical garden of Curitiba.
Words written in the breezy morning.
Ears On REM. Not necessarily by choice.
Time Taken five minutes?
Brain On the new novel.

This entry was published on August 3, 2012 at 9:44 am and is filed under August, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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