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There Are Only Butterflies 

where the wind evolves.
You’d think a chrysalis
would need a tranquil air
to nurture the impending wings,
but it is also the lift and batter, rift and wend
that send the faerie toward its stave and grave—
the lift of gust from the mutable globe, of the moment of candor and glee, of life cavorting in the rank melee,
the batter of gravity, of predictable order, stark sense of endings,
of the prosaic,
the rift of the inscrutable, of the knowledge of light and light itself,
of instinct and mathematics, of the troubled home,
the wend of wills wrenching, weaving, whipping a tapestry of impulse
and kismet, dharma and remorse, of what the frank song brings—

else wings would have no current,
else entropy prevail,
else the swallowtail could not become you,
else you are a stone—
and no matter, stones have their own joy of life—
that is just your identity.

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