Before the Butterfly

"Before the butterfly and its color, he, numb,
formless, feels his fear, he, unattainable.
For what is a butterfly without Julia and Thais?"
–Milosz, from "Natura"







At the height of the hip I hold my hands
as I walk through the warm June stalks of prairie.
This is the level of the butterfly, of the dragon with wings,
never too close to the ground,
a certain hell is sure there where the heat flumes
upward and releases to blue.
Not too high, where even for the comfort of wings
structure is lost, the camouflage
of dark crosses across the hind wings lay revealed
but a tender body,
a nub pulsing with entrails.
I could raise my own arms higher in this world.
Our eyes forever off in the ether,
far off horizons notable dreams.
Yet our feet do dare to roam where the butterfly won't,
and trudge across the crisp
stems of blazing star,
a burnt out scepter held as ash against the coming hours.
I do not know where I belong.
To chase by eyes like wings?
To heel to deep soil with my own shovel before buried?