Two butterflies mingle over a red sedan,

jettisoned, out to the first exit on the highway,

eager. They look like they’re on strings, the two

bodies, noon replicas. I love how they, the

luminous creatures, catch my gaze. Do they

love me, as much as I love them?  Tender

sentiment rubs off the stamen of thought,

but the fruit that falls, is one of stone. Born

from blossom, I question distant things, and

see how they change shape, underfoot the

hooves of fortunate steeds. What remains in

the dust is gratitude, but what lingers in

the horsehair is sorrow. One casts its judgment

upon the other, and from the sweat of the mare

comes shame. What is there to do with the horse

meat, scorned by a papal decree? Unholy

thoughts of consumption, let them dissipate

like the dewfall, exposed to the morning sun.

Instead, we eat manna, that too mingles

over a red sedan.