Let’s suspend a butterfly as we would
a person,
clasp his hands and legs to a rack
as we would an angel.

Stay still for a moment,
our grass it grows.

His butterfly eyes, those owl-less eyes
hover and dart in suspension,
but not enough to spot a hooooo...
or a hawk.

Moments are moments still
in a time lapse.

That bed was made for us both.
That brown-angeled stretch,
stretches for us.
No: we as butterflies hawk the day
and below come forth our prey.