I will ask no more—-there is no reason.
In the upper reaches of the eucalyptus,
In October, a monarch weakly wanders
Where coin-shaped verdigris leaves mimic
Its movements. Off to the west, mysterious
Flashes of light and a heavy storm front:
The sun goes down early today, before
Its time, and the rain will kill the butterfly:
Still, I am the lion of the moment, of the wings
And the leaves and the light—-
Rending the thing in my energy.
