for A.C.

Only to say the thought comes
on a winter’s morning, at a train station.
The sky an ashen blue, reeds murmur
behind a track, a bark tails a car
driving past. You wonder about it then,
how to explain the butterflies you’ve seen,
fluttering around music halls, their image
waving high on a kite, and again
at the end of glass stems in a shop display.
It occurs to you then—
the brush of his cheek on your face
is like a butterfly wing.