A Change of Plans


Hell with seeing the sunrise,

hearing birds sing.

I will be the blue sky

the wind weaving leaves.

Let me be the arc

of the trout,

the shade on a butterfly.

I would not feel the snowflake

on my nose.

Let me be the frozen crystal

drifting through the unwalled room.

I no longer aspire to experience beauty.

Let me be the warm, orange rock

under the climbing hoof of a breathing, bearded ghost.


        John P. Manimas, November 2021

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