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?