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.
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Comments about this poem (Back by Morgan Michaels )
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