A Butterfly, wings of rainbow, 
flutters into my room, 
heading for the light, but the window, 
falling closed, is beauty's doom. 
And I raise the killer again, 
that wood-glass guillotine, 
to stare at the grisly end 
that came to a color queen. 
Pushing the crushed creature 
from the executioner's sill 
only brings out another feature; 
it's me he's out to kill. 
And the former victim but floats back 
to my tortured, out-stretched palm. 
as it twitches, my mood turns black; 
why can't I drop it and be calm? 

January 25, 1985