Wings stiff in rigor mortis,
Though still – so soft! – too soft
To feel at all, the impression of touching gained by sight,
Legs splayed upon the ground.
No butterfly is this – for it does not flutter – by
The concrete rough and grey, pebbled, mossed and mudded
Is no fit place for such a dainty creature
With wings of powdered satin, with feelers – twitching – even after