the butterfly

The Butterfly

In Livorno, Italy, a place few tourists care
to visit, they spoke of the American girl;
I saw her once, she was tall and walked as
not quite there; in the evening her shadow
climbed up and over houses and the citizens
were saddened by her cosmic loneliness

It was a September afternoon, when light
has a sepia sheen, a butterfly came and sat
on the rim of my beer glass, must have
been tired, it fell into the brew, I picked it
out with a match stick, her soggy wings
I had damaged with my clumsy fingers.

When dry it could no longer fly, sat there
as living fluff; shivering in its colossal
solitude; I could not bring it any comfort.
A sigh walked by, the American girl’s
shadow climbed up walls, a zephyr blew
when I looked down the butterfly was gone