the infinite emolumentalism of the catatonic
seeps through the spring day..
the butterfly wants to go home
to its castle in the messier 82 galaxy
where did it go wrong?
even as you or i
i remember when letters
written in purple ink on pale blue stationery
blew through the park
like autumn leaves
now there are only the silent clicks of phones
distant as the crickets on the moons of jupiter…
there...
that was not so difficult, was it?
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