Butterflies of poetry
forever flutter in their reflections
trapped
in the glass jars
of these sentences.
Only in translucency
silhouettes
light the chandelier
of their beauty.
lighting like when sun
looks at itself
in the windows of this town
back and forth,
like when a deer dares
to looks at himself
in real,
from
inside of the pond,
like some strange melancholy
nesting in the sunflowers
of these sunset windows
inside out.
