Eternity

 

The atmosphere is not a perfume

though it beckons to be drunk

into the mind

washed through the senses

like good wine.

 

I spill a little down my throat

gently waft past the moon

sighing

on a night like this

while the wind pretends

to be grand, and you

promise to go on forever.

 

 

Posing with Butterfly

 

Whitman’s

snow beard and trick

butterfly beams light from

the long forgotten language’s

warm heart.