Calm
–
The butterfly souldier unfurls his tongue like a bedroll
And pierces the flower as quickly as a fixed bayonet
breaks through the skin of an apple.
(What it was doing there I don’t know.)
He pierces the bubble of the nectary, the crystal ball foretelling
Babies and coffee cups.
His sugary fix trembles a bit in his delicate dancer’s feet and
he leaps up into the air, blackflipping,
elated with a sense of temporal wellbeing,
the worries of the calendar at bay.
For now.
At least until he’s floated down the stream
that carries every butterfly away from his flower.
