It is strange, how the sun seems to shimmer on
The grass, as though it were a bed of heaven-sent
Butterflies, emerging triumphant from the discarded
Chrysalis. Up above, amidst the darting and dashing
Thrushes, clouds recede until the sky is a bare naked blue.

Six billion single solipsisms
Each screaming simultaneously
As squall of soul madness
Presses against case,
Iron exterior tinged with blazing copper.

You made a career of indecision
Of wavering between dull angel
And fearsome, beautiful animal
Walking wildly far from every path.

Your warm fingers graze my cheekbone,
Stop, trace its shape under wax-pale skin
Your eyes, full, rise to mine, emptied.