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Pyramid of the Magician at Uxmal"

What the mind turns over
and over like polished stones
are the blue butterflies
rising from grass
as we passed the altars.

At Uxmal we listened
to the old stories:
the butterflies are souls
of those the priests
tore open, hearts beating
high in the sun. The ruins
are memories now, here
where snow drifts by the windows.

Across the room shadows
touch your face.
Wings open and close
like fragile hands,
delicate as frost
forming on the glass.

As you fall asleep,
they brush my skin,
settle in my hair.
Nothing that moves
is so blue.

~ Lorna Crozier

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