I find him eating butterflies. They’re beautiful, he says.
If I eat enough of them, I’ll be beautiful too.
He stuffs a monarch in his mouth,
fuzz clinging to his lips.
I hear the flowers weep.
He begins to eat them too,
stray petals on his shoes.
A hummingbird arrives —
dips her bill into his eye,
takes a long, melancholy drink.
What to think — is he crazy,
or is he wise? Does beauty mind? Should I?
Poems, Slightly Used, June 4, 2008
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Categories: Poems, Slightly Used