When the moon’s white push unplumbs the sunflower,
The yellow mums behind the summerhouse disappear
In a combustion of butterflies. Too bad
I am not a lover of butterflies.
Such a rowdy hallelujah
Is wasted on me. Even so—, I don’t think it would be
Such a bad thing to disappear
In a combustion of butterflies.
It would be better than staying in this summerhouse
With nothing to keep me company but these yellow
Mums and butterflies.
That crooked sunflower.
And that moon. That pushy