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: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 2: Here we are in the summer rain again
- 3: You're on, music master
- 4: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 5: To cormorant to samphire to plover
- 6: I'm the left hand ticking on the timeless clock
- 7: Hope and anger in the ink and on the streets
- 8: Rewriting old excuses, delete the kisses at the end
- 9: In those days, I still believed in the future
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