The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Never Mind

that guests no longer come unannounced
or that the photo album contains pictures
of much younger people than we remember being

never mind that swallows etch Sanskrit
on the wrinkled sky

it's November
and the present is emptying its wine
into our glasses

never mind that we're not touching now

because our shadows are holding hands
in the dark behind our backs

--Denver Butson
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