November 2003, Italian Sonnet, Take 2
A million footprints far away from branch
Abandoned, why? No parachutes or silk
String routes, pre-made cocoons or juice or milk
Await, yet still they fall as an avalanche
May hurry down. They flex their glands, crash land
Dismiss their guilt, reorient and bilk
The prey and predators they stilt—full tilt,
And like an arrow, make for the entrance.
From solitaire and lazy window gaze,
Through hall to patio, a cool demise.
The door hydraulically slows down to aid
A million feet beneath a glow of eyes.
What does it matter who will win the race?
They will not be tomorrow’s butterflies.
September 2011, Audio Recording, Take 1