Bow
Satin folded in upon itself,
arms bent at the elbow, clasped behind
the back. A fastening, a knot, but not
for function. You are meant to untie the bow,
to pull at one of the ends, to take its hand
in yours and disentangle its temporary
prettiness. It readily unfolds,
a butterfly transforming in reverse.
I love reading your poems, and then checking the image. They don't always match in my mind, and I enjoy seeing how you've gone from the spark of the image to a poem that stands completely alone.
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