Butterfly

On the rooftops mid the yawning vents

A butterfly inside out

On the rooftops hiding seconds spent

Between boredom, delight, and drought

She has not opacity

To keep thoughts from flying to mouth

So on the rooftops hovering

And those who see, are looking down

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Municipal elections

“It is looking bluer today.”

“Yes – I think they hope this will

send property values further south

and highlight the old mill

as an eyesore.”

“I see –

I always liked the mill myself

but sandstone does seem garish

when, on this street, everything else

smells like blueberry.”

“As someone allergic to scents

I wish they didn’t flavour the paint.”

“Nothing to be done there.”

“No; and to be frank

it’s pleasant to watch the crews

hard at work.

This devaluation project

could always be worse

than a bit of vandalism, and paint.”

Parallel Outlet: 12

A lavender whistle
petaled into me
like a feather
from an unseen canopy

I am not sure whether the being who speaks in What the World is Trying to Be is human at heart.

This, however, is probably idle speculation in the end. When I read pieces from Rumi and the Shadow, often the central character is as much of an enigma as the space between the lines.

There is a grace to characters and ideas expressed at Rumi and the Shadow which I find soothing. And I am not sure what the world is trying to be, but it is a new idea to daydream about, and to imagine a great tree (or man or treant) thinking about the same thing is somehow comforting.

Then, shaking this strange image
from its limbs
got up and stretched, saying,

“I am what the whole world is trying to be”

and washed its face
in the morning mist

Dating

I met her in a soup tureen

Inventing chemoreceptors

Her glare almost gave me compound fractures

But I told her we should go for a dip

For some reason she humoured me

And then we lived happily on the sill together

Peace was the last thing on our minds

And food somewhere near second

Until she remembered herself and asked

“Shouldn’t you be more necessary to my happiness?”

But I alone was never necessary to anyone

She took her honey crumbs, and flew away

Breakfast then bed

I eat fried egg on toast

And reluctantly get dressed

I eat fried egg on toast

And sneak back into bed

I can’t be perfect every day

So I’ll be comfortable instead

The Young Pleasure Seeker (Josephine)

I never loved you, Josephine

Like the larks that flew entwined

Like the water filling the fountain

Or the lord after the hind

I never plucked your handkerchief

Fallen among the rosebeds

Nor begged a walk, a poem, a dance

But asked Thérèse instead

O how I doted on her charms

And waited hours to hear her sing

How I spread the boat with quilts

As inducement to come sailing

But Thérèse, in all her gaiety,

For others plays me false

And I begin to doubt her beauty

When at my vows she balks

I never loved you, Josephine

And this you may be slow to forget

But though I never loved you

I may come to love you yet

At the Brink of Time

Where infinity fades fuzzy

As an impressionist’s paintbrush

And time wrestles with gravity

To pull us off into the dusk

Our longings will be nothing

Nor paralysis of choice

But birds to catch unerring

Familiar fleets to be rejoined

We will sample secret pleasures

And journey where we never spoke

Carve bowsprits from feathers

In between the brushstrokes

And I will hoard your laughter

Your warm, admiring eye

Before the canvas darkens

And at last I say goodbye