“Coincidences of pattern is one of the wonders of nature.”
The same evening he plugged himself
into an amplifier and lit up
with the neon of his young manhood,
there, all the time in the background,
as she searched for a place to rest
with the pressure of metamorphosis
knocking her out cold on the concrete patio
making it difficult in the next few weeks
to wash her hair or sit up straight
reading how Nabokov had snuffed
out the life of a silver-studded
butterfly and smelled the vanilla and musk
perfume of its wings on his fingertips.
She got better. He continued to play.
A bass guitar streamed from his fingers
smelling of her hair as he dug a hole
in the backyard where a spider revolved
around its own hook.
She went to sleep and bathed herself,
an infant child in the dim light of a dream,
knew it was her by the startled look.
The next morning an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail
outside the garage with black wings and a blue band
sampled Hosta for hours and wouldn’t go away.