POLYOMMATUS TO NABOKOV



I, butterfly; I, little painted god,
I flap my wing, dislodge
a slight dusting of azure scales, and lo
the typhoon sweeps over China.
I am Shiva, the making and unmaking.
I stamp my foot and the earth shakes
with the passing of a dozen elephants.

I see you, poet-scientist, regard
my amaranthine silks with lecherous eye,
cataloguing antenna
and mandible as if searching
for just the right word,
and in the beginning was the word –
logos, the name, the truth,
and in my own way, am I not
an artist?  

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