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,
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 notan artist?