| |
|
The four-year-old is sleeping
in the field, and a butterfly
—a monarch, one of those living
stained glass windows the color of
tangerines flambé—is somehow snagged
at the tip of a tendril of her hair. There
will be minor operatics in a second,
as the insect’s struggle wakes her, and
her startle turns what might have been delight
at this to something more like momentary
terror’s arm-jacking, passionate shrieks...but
first there’s this still scene where she’s
asleep, the day’s as lucid as a day
engraved on glass, and the butterfly
hovers as if her imagination
just gave rise to an actual kite.
From Hair Pieces. Thanks for this thread, iconoplast. I'd not heard of him before, but am very glad I have now. |
|
|
