This morning with a blue flame burning
this thing wings its way in.
Wind shakes the edges of its yellow being.
Gasping for breath.
Living for the instant.
Climbing up the black border of the window.
Why do you want out.
I sit in pain.
A red robe amid debris.
You bend and climb, extending antennae.
I know the butterfly is my soul
grown weak from battle.
A Giant fan on the back of
a beetle.
A caterpillar chrysalis that seeks
a new home apart from this room.
And will disappear from sight
at the pulling of invisible strings.
Yet so tenuous, so fine
this thing is, I am
sitting on the hard bed, we could
vanish from sight like the puff
of an invisible cigarette.
Furred chest, ragged silk under
wings beating against the glass
no one will open.
The blue diamonds on your back
are too beautiful to do
away with.
I watch you
all morning
long.
With my hand over my mouth.
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