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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


and drink from


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AgnotTheOdd said...
Feb. 5, 2011 at 8:52 pm
This was an interesting poem.  Pretty profound.  I definitely enjoyed the last line or two
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