THE BUTTERFLY

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Its wings remain spread
In the uncertain angle of flight
As the wind from a passing car
Sends it seesawing back and forth.
The ants, black-suited, pallbearers trickle out
Onto the sun-scorched pavement.

The veins stretch across the wings
Dividing the oranges and yellows
Into thin rectangles of stained glass.
Its legs are folded solemnly
Across the hollow chest
As the ants chew and tug
Devouring in perfect worship.

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