Real
as a dream
the beetle
shimmering ¾ green
on my upturned palm

With eyes
shut tight I can see
blood beat
& feel
how the living burn

Red ribbons
& a party dress
but night
in her six-year old
refugee eyes

 
 
 
 
 
As I swerve
for a siren
the sobering
"clink" of wine bottles
rolling in my trunk

In warm rain
pale pink ¾ almost luminous
mushrooms
soft as infant bottoms
among the rotting leaves

In a sidestreet
storefront
the Muskokas
at sunset
by a man who can paint