I come upon a dead butterfly in the parking lot. The blackest asphalt sets off the shimmering seafoam scales of his one remaining wing: A wedge of Luna and lime against a tarmac night sky. I wonder where the other wing is, And when he lost it. It might have cracked off and blown away long after he was dead, Like a sheet of snowflakes. But he probably lost it while he was still living, Hit by a car or an ignorant wayward step, Left to flutter and stumble to his demise Like a wounded soldier or a choking fish; A cerulean one-winged sailboat Overturned on the vast black pavement.
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