The Lepidopterist's Lament

The butterflies circle, crazed, in the heat.
Beautiful things, but utterly hopeless,
They pause on the pavement, on flowers,
On branches, but they do not eat. What
The hell do they do? And the women
Down there, on the sand, they seem
Similar. They do not eat. They're
Beautiful things, and I rush at them
Sometimes, but they fly away. I'm
Unable to know what they want.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 57 times
Written on 2010-08-05 at 00:52

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