The backs of the butterfly wings caught fire and it was a deep-blooded copper glow when the sun came through my window, the backs, and it has come to represent so much more, the stained glass pane my mom and dad made because of course it would, they do, as symbols: the symbols are no different than any other detail in our days, by virtue of themselves they’re inseparable, the same as the divine we never notice but sometimes in dreams.
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Categories: Poetry
Bill Pearse 
I imagine laser beams shot from X-Wing fighters drilling the backs of those poor butterfly S.O.B.s. I really doubt that’s the mood and/or image you were wanting to conjure, but I can’t help it. My apologies.
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You’re always welcome here Walt, shit stained boots and all. Put your feet up and let me go get you one.
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You know, when I was in college, I woke up many mornings on the floor of apartments I didn’t live in, or remember how I got to. I think but for peculiarities of time and space, yours would have been one of them.
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It’s not too late to not remember
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Nice poem followed by a good conversation between you two…sounds like a continuation of the piece!
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Ha! That’s cool, a continuation of the piece. I like that! Glad you were able to pop by and be entertained a bit by a couple clowns, us. Cheers! – Bill
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Reblogged this on triumphovermatter.
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