& the three butterflies lightly suspend just
above the road, knee high; flutters of six
wings, in almost embrace; what we think
we know of instinct; aren’t we all in hover
& slightly out of place, bringing a bent
kind of beauty with us in our gait; show me
what your gait looks like? I’ll show you mine.
Contrasts of yellows & oranges in delicate
bob against asphalt—something
necessary & at work here; where concrete
winds, so too, winds the work of insect; say
my thorax of me, my speckled body; say I wonder
in air & find you in pause, in witness; we all in
the middle with other, round & round
until whatever limbs we have tire {of} us.