Behind every word is weird word notes
That lead up to this new poem of light
Like collaborating ants back- stabbed
By caterpillars now winged butterflies.
Butterflies have not hit my windshield.
Their wings are imagination’s forming.
There is rain falling from temple stone,
Frothing plastic drum in heavens anger.
There is rain on my silken robes for God
As if it is a patch of anger’s sweaty mist.
God smiles flowers smell music of pipe,
Butterflies every where form my colours.