Sonnet #262

We never know what will be kept of us

Locked away in memories of those we know

We don’t own the memory of us, don’t own

The way people talk about the best of us —

The snout butterfly, late summer rains rise strong
So swarms scurry to seek nectar and appropriate leaves
The hackberry’s a weed tree, I kill all I recieve
A fast-growing thing, thank god snouts devour on
And on, great numbers accumulating, press towards

horizons and winds, grackles scatter among the drifts

Snatching between cars that smash through herds

Each fluttering tries to carry hope, tries to sift

the sky itself for signs of nectar, the proper tree;

Some live, some die as food or badly – whatever will be

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