day lops off night’s head,
and white butter-
flies spill out like tiny white bloodcells.
most of them float, are lighter
than treesap, but a few fall
to the ground and make the slightest
upon which the dander of ladybugs
mingles with locusts and roaches
and little plastic scorpions
that look very real.
m. walks around the house
in turtleneck and jeans
and says things like: “I have
no patience with the carpet,” or
“I will be going to the store today.”
the salt in m. yearns for home,
causes small holes in m.’s socks.
because it is winter, m. moves slowly
through the kitchen, holding tightly
to drawer handles and looking
out the window often.
a chill seeps into the flowerpots
and some of the dishes in the sink.
“the faithful ceiling,” m. says,
looking up and smiling,
because m. knows the springtime
in the kitchen knives, the sound
and tumble of bumblebees in the butcher block.
a butterfly collides with the window,
making a little smear-spot on the glass.
on m.’s shopping list, m. writes: