Brooke Pacy

Vital Signs

The sated caterpillar swoons
into its green-gold shroud to wake
winged - an angel - and go
touch by flowery touch
       about immortal business …

and the writer layers heavy-laden
words with light between in poems,
stories - unmortared spaces that the waiter,
ticket-taker, passenger may fill
with his own memory, make music
shaped for an alchemy to chime in yet
       again a newfound world.

If I listen, I can almost hear
the twisting fabric tear. Like stepping out
on the moon, that rare weightless
lift from fictive wing
to the real thing -
       metamorphosis.



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