a poacher angling with fettered lure,

April 2, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 10 Comments
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the butterfly, of course, in repose her wings held discretely together and aloft
splendid only in vibrant and transitory flight
perhaps balance has become too much of a word and less of a thought
perhaps sanity overrated,

somethings pass silent into the night while others in song are taking flight,

but if it was for me, a little more overt perhaps, each detail exposed beneath a lurid invading sun in some coarse and open field somewhere,

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