amongst the cobalt and fuzz petals
just a butterfly i swatted,
troubled by some kind of allergy,
my eyes puffed in tears.
yet there was a sepiatone shot,
a gaussian blur recorded.
dream was going bad and it
wanted me to know.
"what the hell, you've killed
the only one you love?"
remembering her poised lips,
i deny.
i don't kill such beautiful things.
the butterfly, my logic
in the dream helps out:
"your fundamentally careless
swipe."
"i never killed anything,"
i repeat as i explore, now,
so desolate a hazy pasture.
"She is still alive, still alive, still ..."
for the next sixty minutes
tossing and turning on the bed,
wool blanket cast aside.
cold again, knees freezing --
till i see the 'death' and bad dream.
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