This morning with a blue flame burning

this thing wings its way in.

Wind shakes the edges of its yellow being.

Gasping for breath.

Living for the instant.

Climbing up the black border of the window.

Why do you want out.

I sit in pain.

A red robe amid debris.

You bend and climb, extending antennae.

I know the butterfly is my soul

grown weak from battle.

A Giant fan on the back of

a beetle.

A caterpillar chrysalis that seeks

a new home apart from this room.

And will disappear from sight

at the pulling on invisible strings.

Yet so tenuous, so fine

this thing is, I am

sitting on the hard bed, we could

vanish from sight like the puff

off an invisible cigarette.

Furred chest, ragged silk under

wings beating against the glass

no one will open.

The blue diamonds on your back

are too beautiful to do

away with.

I watch you

all morning

long.

With my hand over my mouth.