The Last Butterfly

It is a siren,
this unfettered urge of yours to sing,
as though just born this morning
and already past the milk of things,
having glimpsed the future yesterday,
returned and returned again.
Still, all I know is this little life,
this certain order of things: I breathe, I fly,
I live at the edge of perdition.
And you, you are so beautiful this morning,
your golden fingers through the branches
as if reaching
is a reason for being, as though
my capture could make you a god
and I wonder how well you know yourself,
if you see the particular way
you've arranged the clouds,
what part of tomorrow you will remember
forever: if it is I,
drunk on the colors of you,
drowning in your oil rainbow,
or how gently sweetness passes itself,
its wings spread out like arms,
like a cross. Tomorrow,
I shall sing with you
for I have no other way to die.


**From All the Ways We Could Have Met