They’d have you think

we’re simple,

diluted and disillusioned,

eluding fierce allusions,

visions of grandeur

etched, in seconds,

into the wings of a butterfly.

We’re taught to follow patterns,

and patterned to follow.

Her wings shame Gogh,

humble Dali,

confuse her predatory world,

lift her into the air,

then ask her,

“Would cruel nature

truly select beauty?”

The butterfly shrugs

with great portraits

flitting over to a blossom

just as beautiful as she

in an ignorant world of ugly man

——

Today I’m on Libra,

yesterday was Capricorn

(in case you need to know

—— or if I forget it)

I’ve seen them all, I think.

Save Scorpio,

but of course I don’t belong

in this land of stars.

——