there’s a lonely butterfly ready to spread it’s
blue wings only if you believe it it will flutter
like a whisper beneath your belongings
there’s a pallet alphabet spring she will brush
sudden dip if only you believe in she will
paint you lonely afternoon radio ukuleles
there’s a boy with a broken guitar and he will
play with the broken chords until you show
him love
there’s a motel down the waterloo lane for
passerbies from war will tell you a story that
can probably hurt
there’s a lonely butterfly ready to spread it’s
blue wings only if you believe it it will flutter
like a whisper beneath your belongings
there’s a country drifter in your prayer, will
sing you a few songs if you’re ready to hear
peace
there’s a morsel of love in the ghetto shared
waiting for you to give a set of thoughts if only
you care where life fails to live
there’s a duduk and a madol hurled into the
whirlwinds of a vagabond can dance on your
nerve-points if only you wonder enough
there’s a teenager with plastic flowers
smelling plastic all day until you give them
the real ones
there’s an open window sketched on the wall
lovers will paint a moon if they can’t break
that wall
there’s a teacup in the memory of a
conversation puffed with palmtouches that
grow voices in the dark if only you’ve been to
darks
there’s an unaccustomed desire in our spoons
in the kitchen of lust left with unfinished
recital realizations
there’s a bird at your arrival to the sunset
teary and lost if only you believe it it can be
your nothing and all
there’s a burning girl reading my letters
timelessly she won’t fall as she knows where
will she land and she will burn that way and
all the other ways she can
there are cactus grasses gardened in our past
we can’t walk barefoot back to our lost land
just like that
there’s a child sleeping without the world and
it will until you give it a kiss
there’s a rock that will just melt if you believe
in it it will even turn into a marshmallow
seagreen
there’s a wife somewhere tied with knots and
lies until you show her how tender is really
the night
there’s an old man up in the cloudhouse with
binocular howls afraid of a thunder until you
bear with him the voices of a rumble going in
there’s a pothead humiliated orchestrated
and under the bridge of frozen smoke-snakes
he will potwails unless you buy him
icecreams that melt
there’s a junkie in your too known colony too
known and unknown by your too known til
you start asking and listening
there are infinite cologne dust smitten on
your marriage coats hung by a hook, up in
your forgotten mercy screaming wall
there’s a gondola drowning with your
unwritten poems if you’re only a swimmer
there’s a dark eyecircled waitress with ices to
pour in your glass and she will drink like a
lover only if you tip her your heart
there’s cassette made out of iron and wine if
only you dream Jezebel you will feel it’s
eyelashes falling on your eyes
and there’s a book ponytailed with a
remembering May if only you’re aware of the
language of the curtains that change
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