Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

The Visitation

Ringing your doorbell
I was a jumble of keys and tissues
with papers falling from my bag as I
searched for mints and hairspray
and you came to the door at last;
you turned the deadbolt
grinning through the glass

and as the door opened, a wind swept through
tumbling from the hallway
and rushing to the pathway
collecting me like mail and sorting
the junk from the value

and by the time I was upon you
the metamorphosis had come to pass -
you moistly somersaulting, caterwauling,
calling for me;
and I this tiger-moth,
a boudoir butterfly with her wing-span

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