by Mary E. Lowd
Fall, 2015
I glimpsed glittering worlds through a veil,
I pushed back the veil, explored, and wrote down
what I saw.
The worlds are words.
They’re written now.
They glitter.
They’re dead,
Pinned like butterflies
in a box.
And all that’s left behind the veil is cartoon images,
Two-dimensional, joke versions that I jerk to life
Like puppets on strings.