& 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.