Monday, August 22, 2011

not nearly true, but almost

i have a story
of an old bear who often rambles
darkened needled trees
pick-pacing dead thorny edges
gouging soft bark
(calmly wild-eyed)
until i can see gashes opening
like new wounds
little phosphorous butterflies gather, ineffectual
(they should be closing and healing the hurt places)

when fragile things come into the trees
i worry about their soft skins

she says
i keep toys so i can say i play

while she catches my eye, one terrible claw slowly

i am wondering if little butterflies will gather on my skin
but they are looking away
singing one song
that seeps out

like fresh sap

1 comment:

sarah elwell said...

Breath taking. The sort of poem I want to come back and read and read again.