I heard a story about men who give
Their lovers pressed butterflies as gifts.
I imagine the men walking around wheat fields
With blank books held open in their hands,
Raised like an offering to the God of
Sidelong glances and sometimes smiles,
Praying that a butterfly will emerge
And bumble lazily towards them
So they can prostrate themselves before His throne.
And as they bow their heads
And bring their hands together
The books snap shut,
Turning the air and the wind into
Something that looks like love.
