In bits and pieces you saw my life stuttering through clumsy poems,
my loves as they had been and as they were dreamt,
in the lives of elegant butterflies hopping from flower to flower, or
seen through crows’ feathers and in black clouds,
words contemplating over sailing ships on seas of aspiration,
or waving branches of dying trees.
The birds that make their nests
and rain falling to erase the worst of our sorrow
were all substitutes for what I wanted you to know.
Now you have found yourself in there, or so you say,
what more can I do, now we stand to look down
at the leftovers of our affairs in verse.
Yes, it was that deep perhaps, or do you find it shallow
and not always about you. See, there still is a bit of attraction left
if you look through the hairs of the feather.
It was that intense. You understand
and hand me the dustpan and brush to clean up.
While you make coffee in sunlight dust, new lines emerge.