Even as I take the photo, it is dying. Music
from a nearby flat seeps into the park
heat-soaked beats that make me think

of getting ready: the slow ritual of it
the skin-tight Primark bodycon, foundation
oil pastel thick on chins and foreheads, the taste

of Smirnoff Ice on our lips, alcohol
softened by sugar, the way we nonchalantly knew
we’d be desired. In the long light evening of today

I lean closer to the Comma that does not know
that I am taking its photo, that does not know
it is resting on the exact same metal fence

I saw another Comma bask on last summer,
and another the summer before that. Even the angle
of the wings is the same: the way it spreads them

wide and proud as sails, a kite in miniature
before it’s off and airborne, darting up
to places I can only dream of:

where scalloped orange wings touch orange sky
and tree tops shimmer in cloudless electricity.
The mid-August weather holds

everything like a temple as my hands
sit on the fence with the missing butterfly
lightly brush against the absence

and my body softens in the sun, tells me
that it would like to fall in love again,
says that it thinks we could do it