Butterfly II
A butterfly, or
a moth, enters
the periphery of
the glaze-eyed still, an
interruption splitting time
into fractions of first and last
seconds. Honey-sepia gaze spills
over, hot sun beats rainbow into clump,
the scene is flung into a muddy, fluorescing bruise,
every dream and wake, bone and break abandoned—
a skittle-burst passing through
someone else’s window:
mine.
