Gold Medal Park

For Ligeia and Josh

You say switchback,
I hear switchblade.
Hairpin turns shapeshift
into weapons when I flip
them open too fast.

An outstretched hand
offers ephemera
from a small wooden box
Joseph Cornell
would have coveted.

I see, no, I become ephemerella.
Please don’t pin down
my wings.
I have merely a day
to get it all done.

I flutter in search
of unpolluted freshwater.
Don’t miss mountains
or oceans
I’ve never known.

I will spiral
to the top
of this mound
to watch my first
and last sunset.

Whoever writes
a song about me
will need to pause

to watch a red tripod
steel sculpture
land in the park—
a temporary home
while the true one gets redone.

Will need to see
more dragonfly than mayfly
woven into the bosque.

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