Friday, November 20, 2015

swallowtail  
Harvey S. Mozolak

worm slug snake
somehow its naked family
yet removed several times
and four times syllabicated
caterpillar
yet a crawler
hairy
by fur tufts and dangles
on the porch
dead
crushed it will ooze an odd hue
pus green or decaying yellow
the thing will be difficult to move
this handless finger
without distaste
or the sweep of a broom

later that day

in the garage near the pile of empty boxes
toward the front of the cooling car’s grill
in perfect condition
a ochre and black butterfly
wings open as they were in flight
from flower to flower
beyond the open door
on its side fallen to the grey concrete
the two vestigial hairs that probed the air
for movement
silent
the twin tiny hands that once
pushed the breeze
to taste from petal to petal
still
picked up and placed
on the grass
it leaves the powder of its wings
on my palm thumb and index tip
a palette with which to brush
a word cocoon




gathering feathers of light
Harvey S. Mozolak

my tawny dog
with catlike whiskers
but don’t tell him that
who thinks he is bigger than he is
likes to pull together afghans rugs pillows
towels and clothing left on the floor
raking them by paw
into a gathered pile
I have heard it said it is a nesting instinct

so when the small sliver of sunlight
comes through the dining room window
and falls onto the carpet
he attempts to enlarge it
by scratching at its sides
to make a wider warmer bed
no wonder
because he may have seen me
stretch an phone photo

it is the beginning slice of autumn
I too wish to scrape away
the starting fall of leaves
and gather leaving light
thin as it is
into a pile of summer still
a warm weekend
and more
now that the tree nests
are empty
and the dog on walks
finds fewer wings to startle




nail-less reverence
Harvey S. Mozolak

a few trees
among the many
perpendicular
to their roots and ground
a few trunks
among those who Babel upward
fluttering leaves
loose like senseless tongues
flapping winter twigs
like lifeless wings
at angels’ flying flames
a few from the forest
bend
at the weight of the world
attempting to bind down
the weight of glory
bend they do
against the gravity of God
engrained and hammered in hate
hatcheted from heaven
for the burning noon
sun beginning the three days
of the Father’s only begotten

stump

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