We have not spoken in weeks. I don’t like the infection,
the electric buzz in my ear, but that’s what we are.
Electric hums. Glowing bees in a hive.
My eyes are swollen. Slightly allergic to daylight.
I’d been at a butterfly exhibit all day, which somehow exhausted me.
Almost all the butterflies were dead.
They came from south-east Asia, places full of oversized leaves and colors
because of so much light. Everything thick and full,
upturned and expectant. Imagine never a dry season, maybe monsoons.
Where do they hide? Disguise as a dry leaf would be futile.
The curator took the iridescent corpses and arranged them on the flowers.
Sometimes he took live ones and put them on top of sliced cantaloupe.
They have roll-up tongues that flicker like green flame.
This is where people find their spiritual molt. Peter once found
a feather and for him, that was the old amazement.