Monday, July 4, 2011

Black Butterflies

Stepping off the train

I saw the black butterflies

And the wind-carried rust

With the tired lain-over graffiti

Speaking rounded spoonfuls

Beneath us

And the white and brown rocks

Smooth over the repetition

That is not quite perfect

Like the lily pads

And the handles on the bridge

I wish I could grab but can’t

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