–

The butterfly souldier unfurls his tongue like a bedroll

And pierces the flower as quickly as a fixed bayonet

breaks through the skin of an apple.

(What it was doing there I don’t know.)

He pierces the bubble of the nectary, the crystal ball foretelling

Babies and coffee cups.

His sugary fix trembles a bit in his delicate dancer’s feet and

he leaps up into the air, blackflipping,

elated with a sense of temporal wellbeing,

the worries of the calendar at bay.

For now.

At least until he’s floated down the stream

that carries every butterfly away from his flower.