The House of Dead Butterflies


Sitting at the weaving table
Looking at the unfinished cloth
Walls mounted with display cases
Like friends and lovers faces
Counting how many dead butterflies
Are scattered with egos unable
To again fly to shallow loves trough
Living immediacies in acceptable lies

They have metamorphosing down
From colorful potential hope
To cabbage worms crawling glaze
Eating the leaves growing up
Slowly their laugh turns clown
Sliding further on this slope
Missing it in a million ways
Pretending the dog time is a pup.

Summer 1985