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Wednesday, May 9, 2012

The Butterfly Lands


At the mouth of a cave cut from limestone,
We were suddenly swathed in butterflies.
They’d swarmed upon us  from the valley below
Like bees protecting their hive. Except not.
We weren’t even sweet that day. We were hot.
And they were a tide, not a swarm. That “No!”
Was misplaced, from other times, and other cries.
And just before one lit .. was a sigh. Not a groan.

2 comments:

  1. Thank you. You have reminded me that poetry is not simple to understand, unlike most prose. I will have to oil up my brain again.

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  2. I didn't mean this to be difficult. The impulse was too many of the kind of works where every ironic/significant thing that preceded a catastrophe was noted. Like "The Bridge of San Luis Rey". This poem was just about the moment before the "miracle" occurs.

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