some sort of liminal

some sort of liminal



I’m swimming through a rusted mist

of sleep-stained air

a jet thunders through the

dream-buttered sky, like

it thinks it’s bigger than a Bacchanalian feast

attended by all the gods.

my dreams, like wild butterflies, are

just uncaptured poems. when I’m lucky enough

to wake while trailing a snaring net,

neatly polished words sit under glass,

collecting intellectual dust, the way

a display of dead insects betray

a faded vitality in the colors patterned into memory

on their wings.

a sense of wonder can only

continue to be cultivated by

butterflies still fluttering in the mind’s eye


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