It is my brother's birthday. The monarch butterfly which my mother discovered as an egg on a milkweed leaf last week and tenderly brought inside to be sheltered from hungry birds and fed on fresh-picked milkweed eclosed and flew free this afternoon, she hopes to join its kindred in migration; she showed me pictures of the transparent empty chrysalis, the wings like black and gold stained glass. My physical situation which had been cautiously mending has rather abruptly cratered. And Toni Morrison died. I go back and forth between feeling philosophical about the constant changing of the universe and thinking that a small amount of stability really wouldn't hurt anyone.
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- 1: I'll stay out until my mind is like a clear glass
- 2: I make sure there are hidden messages in my work
- 3: The wind is blowing the planes around
- 4: I cannot feel it, the veil of black, a fine spray of white paint
- 5: Pilgrimage, private life, mortality
- 6: My dream house is a negative space of rock
- 7: Your spirit watched me up the stairs
- 8: No, I'll build a cute flower border
- 9: If you don't want the death of the party after I'm gone, sing one for me
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