Thursday, August 2, 2007


I'm home after eight
months, back in the country.

The river's high,
High enough to drown in.

The rosebeds are overgrown
My mother calls them her
Butterfly gardens

I picture her with pruning shears,
Clipping away at their dusty wings.

The moon is out after weeks of rain,
timid in the weight of light.

Tonight before I sleep I'll check
The corners of my room for scorpions
They cling to the ceiling, you know?
They drop during the night.
They sting you in your sleep.

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