by Matthew Rodgers
I listened to the sky, the howling romance of the breeze,
coming and going, into the blue, which is black.
I lived the life of caterpillars, where limbless bodies,
and impassioned minds are eaten by towers of tall eyes.
I cried out, to reason, to happiness, and silence pervaded the sky.
Where is the blind mole, where are the blown off petals, victims to time?
It’s very serious when the crowd of ants invade the scenery of the heart.
And into the clouds I saw shapes of butterflies pinned to rainbows,
but the sky was blue and gave no impression to characterize
the extent to which the void had deepened, because it is black.
Matthew Rodgers writes only from those impulses that nag at the mind until they are out. He has been published in local university and private presses in the San Francisco Bay Area.
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