PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY

The Man Who Walked the Moon to Become It

(for michael jackson)

A field of birdsong, walking.

Apollo's whispers adorning your mind and

very black very blue tears dried by a hundred thousand

cherry-cheeked cherubs.

You kill me sweetly, you kill me quickly.

It's simple to see how, but never why, you do it.

A poem of breath and blood, hopping off the page and living.

Grief-colored diamonds nest in the

whites of your lost and found eyes.

Your smile and laugh the song of manna,

meandering to my ears and

delighting them with the sensation of pearls.

You must be Noah's dove returning with an olive branch,

slowly sliding across the large azure palm of the sky.

A fountain of mixed milk and honey, inviting me to sit and think,

alto and soprano heart.

Reach beyond this new world you've discovered,

crack open the golden-covered mercy-covered streets

that guide your tired feet home

and, just for a little while, please,

float down to this uncertain time and place

to grace darkness' ear again and

whisper it out of its menacing hold on the human race.

And, too, grace my own being with only

the quiet power of

who you are.

Because the more you move,

the more

I

am

still inside.