i got to know the son of don quixote last night:
he has silk and rich skin,
holds secrets within.
cover a guise
of a boy inside
to a forest of green
in a bronx ravine.
it sounded like night, with midnight lights fluterring
twinkling, whispering, touching, feeling, being,
the midnight lights: these fluttering butterflies.
we feel their wings flapping,
the breeze through the windows ajar.
we see the butterfly wings when we gaze out,
the glass and the yellow and the white and the green.
we hear the vibration of these wings
as the gleaming buzz of the nyc air
filters in to our beautiful night.