Back to the skies
whose broad stripes and bright stars
and kohled pharaoh's eyes
rub off between the fingertips and thighs.
Bonnie April is over
and mid-summer's bonfires;
the vineyard's furrow now
is filled up with snow
or snow's white imminence.
And that life you leased
wide-winged, sipping flower
after flower, burnt to ashes now;
not to be bitter or sour,
there is a space for you
there, in heaven's fair face-
a minimal gape for you to fill,
a missing puzzle piece
the wide sky needs filled to be complete.
Fly, o butterfly, the time is ripe.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Back by Morgan Michaels )
- Should We Kill Poetry, Tony Adah
- Look deep in my eyes, obed obser
- No Pussy In Hell, Buddy Bee Anthony
- गोरबो इसिँनिफ्राइ- 79, Ronjoy Brahma
- Stay That Way, Lawrence S. Pertillar
- Veins, Vines, And Vineyard Sweepings, Dexsta Ray
- Once There Was Love, Guy Shaked
- Silent Aspirations, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- None But I Myself Am A Witness To Contem.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- Need To Know, Michael McParland