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Doubt

June 1, 2012

Does a butterfly look
for death? Does it grab
the one dead
leaf on the black road,
everything else green and live
and cool in the shadows,
by accident? Over and over
the same wacky accident? Or
does it prefer the slow hot
end to the sharp surprise
of a bird’s beak? Or,
and here is my real
question, is there some
other purpose, secret,
visited only by butterflies
and other experts, that pulls
its soft body to the black heat,
its only companion already too
charred and dead itself
to notice its pain?

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From → Trashword Poems

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