Butterfly on a Dahlia

Caring too intently stops the works –
feeling viscerally that you are invested
in the course and outcome of – let’s say,

a love – jerks you into fun-house
mirror vision: running through a wobbling
tunnel of untenable decisions lining up

like disapproving judges, ready to condemn
you for the least infraction: sharp contraction
of the heart: all of whose strange parts

are on the verge of cracking and exacting
yet more action bent on – what?
Conducting a small mottled butterfly:

which would sooner die than follow
your restricted course. How do you induce
a force, a flow? Don’t say no. Imagine

that it flutters on a dahlia in a dream,
fantasia-ed through the bed-room of your
quarry. Want more than that? Sorry.


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