Artifacts of Loss

One is an image someone has posted on FB:
       in it, rowboats and swan-boats and sea-
                horse boats have been laid over 
with every brilliant filter. Blooms 
       on the bottlebrush trees that fringe 
                the lake look yellow instead of red.
But the beggared mind can’t choose. 
       Another: creased and oily, a certificate 
                that records the day but not 
the time of birth. When does the butterfly
       know how to rip through the tent
                 of its own misgivings? The language
of goodbyes can sound like a language
       of warnings: wait, stay, next time. I saw
                 a footbridge printing itself as it was built:
or rather, the arm of a machine was visible,
      out of which molten filaments dangled
                 in the air before hardening in place.

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