Moth/ Butterfly in Abundance


Where there is a tree 
Not suitable to be a ladder . . .
There is a man. He seems familiar.
I see it in his hands . . .

He pulls off its petals


As if giving it the chance to acknowledge
Or giving the others the chance to cry.
I don’t say ‘Petals are ineffective wings.’
He doesn’t say ‘I am only scratching a wound.’

Where the rain is ropes knotted carelessly . . .
That doesn’t seem to have confusion or anticipation;
Like a god.
I don’t say ‘Your shoelaces are undone.’
He doesn’t say ‘My shoes are tight.’

I see it in his hands silent, subservient . . .
And I,
As if I’m a voice box
Was hanged from her vocal cords!
He is not on an island desolate and remote
For me to estimate that he is counting what have passed of days.
I don’t say ‘The stars are our divorced mothers

Fearing for us of a scheming side.’
He doesn’t say ‘Every star is paralysed.’

The man

With his long hair
In his eyes / the shadowy punctured
Left . . . 
While the rose doesn’t forget

To emit scent there, where
A small tree
Doesn’t betray any bird . . .
And a man who was summarising the world

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