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Its

Its

In cold and heat waits the breaking point,
Just ask the butterfly
As it winters in Mexico
Surrounded by adoring paparazzi,
All taking cuts from its paper-thin beauty.

Or the fly, in its many forms:
The shit, the dead,
And the little ones,
That circle and square,
The centers of wintered rooms.

But save pity for the summer moth
Finding, as it springs from its casing
It will leave most of its beauty behind,
In the softness and warmth of a dying husk,
And worse, the ugly that's left of it,
Goes on only to kiss a flame.


Mike Brady 2010













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