What Won’t Go Away May Be Trivial

I close my eyes, remember how
I once lifted a butterfly & watched
its wings fall apart, become a map
of wind in my palm. The end
was quiet—a mercy—the simple
feeling of being small rather than tiny
or teensy. Say everything depends
on movement, thrown out like
tornadoes across the landscape,
a hundred tiny bursts touching
and being touched. Say when
the wind clears the air, this dank
beauty will hold me together
& I’ll drink what won’t go away
from the cup of scalded hands.