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Pupation
December 9, 2010
I picture four wings of enamel,
the loop of gold thread on a spruce branch.
I think of this:
a butterfly again suspended.
Would softness sink into its wing-scales,
then hardness enshroud its soft substance
once more? It will
once more
from shapelessness shape its perfecting–
or instead break the thread,
fall, crack,
flex from artifice into insect
flesh,
and drink from
flowers.
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This article has 1 comment.
AgnotTheOdd GOLD said...
on Feb. 5 2011 at 8:52 pm
This was an interesting poem. Pretty profound. I definitely enjoyed the last line or two
