Pupation

I picture four wings of enamel,

the loop of gold thread on a spruce branch.



I think of this:


a butterfly again suspended.


Would softness sink into its wing-scales,

then hardness enshroud its soft substance



once more? It will




once more

from shapelessness shape its perfecting–



or instead break the thread,



fall, crack,


flex from artifice into insect



flesh,




and drink from



flowers.