Butterfly
Butterflew piebald and wry, A ship’s skeleton, Beached, Charcoaled ribs with no ghost of a sail, Heads bowed stern, As we all pass by.

The Dream
I dreamt that you were dreaming of me: We chased and treed the four winds and left them knotted, Quivering and breathless against the trunk. You had called to them, Enticing arms stretched, inviting sly fingers rubbed like lips, An enbowed beak, And down they had slid. I laughed and you cried; then we set them free.

Ellie at the Bank
Ellie stands in line. She reaches into The Pocket of Secrets. All jeans have one, and although someone once told her that it was for keys or coins, she had always known that it was for small treasures. She uses hers to transport the unusual pebbles she finds. When the jeans are washed, she leaves telephone numbers and memos inside, rolled tight like a carrier-pigeon’s charge. Hot-legged from the dryer, she unfurls the scrolled messages like pirate maps, the edges worn and the ink faded but, with luck, the treasure still marked. She has missed many meetings and potential relationships to this testing ground. Today, The Pocket contains: a plectrum (with a nugg