“It is dreams that have destroyed us”
–William Carlos Williams
Was that a conversational play
On what I said,
Like a butterfly floating
Briefly to this flower
But not that flower?
Does it matter to the dream?
* * *
he saw only what he saw
his life blocked his view
so many rocks to clear a way
he should have worn gloves
fingertips drip blood like crumbs
as if marking a path to follow
fumbling through the rocks
he fumbles with the rocks
blood patterns the rough stones
like wings of exotic butterflies
* * *
Amidst your soft conversational flutter,
I hear echoes of my echoes in your words,
Like when I was a boy and wrote the girl
I wanted to see, not necessarily
The one who was there, listening:
Not so much a response,
As an interpretation of a response.
* * *
A doubling of what could have been said
Like a chrysalis, about to break,
hanging from a branch.
Was there change
during the pause
of that conversation?
Do you go back
and listen again?
I do,
Constantly
Sounding each word
For what I wish to hear
Until the echo’s walls
Shape my thoughts
And I fade into this room
Familiar in its comfortable desire.
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