Turning that new leaf
        over and over
    like wrinkled paper – so soft

Are those eggs in its underwing?
  Minuscule, little dreaming larvae
sunlight spears you
What do you do when it hits the bottom?
        face   up
  A platter for ***** beaks

They wake up and eat
   hiding and eating, growing

  until you miss that leaf so much
        your organs melt
   writhing goops of self
     you make your own

Later, you’ll turn
  briefly
     but so spectacularly
Your little dreams will find their deaths
    unnoticed little sleeps
while the leaves turn still