Mouths like scissors:
the Emperor feasts on dung, the Hairstreak is torn mid-flight,
the Fritillary lays her eggs near violets that may not survive the mower,
the Swallowtail, phlox-skimming priestess of joy,
dies in the chrysalis’s womb
if a parasitic wasp has her way.

Entropy isn’t just decline: it’s appetite,
the asking price of beauty.

And you, there in the park, trying not to be spoken to
by grief in a human form —
you watch the butterflies.

Despair? Of course. The system eats its saints.
But don’t let that stop you from counting wings.
Let’s mourn it properly, shall we?
I could offer a stanza, a stone, a litany.
Or would you rather scream into the maw with me?