flying down a summer road
not an hour, your clean prison-stamped face
claims its first victim: a locust
from a Mississippi field

a dozen scorching miles later,
two dancing bees, who flew a billion miles a bucket for nectar,
smudged your double Bs, simultaneously
as if they’d made a pact to end
their busy buzzing and serve
their thankless queen
no more

next, a majestic monarch
did not understand the speed of light
the power of seventy miles per hour
or the sharp edge of your plate
against an eternal bumper

it left a stain more yellow
than red, though I have no doubt it bled
mutely, while another butterfly fluttered
faraway, wings wild against a black
ignorantly blessed sky

BRB-603,
who you massacre  
we’ll wait to see