Sundays: no one's butterflies are
going to affect the wavelength
of the sun magnifying ants
(nothing will happen anyway).
Rewind, the air wrinkles into
sundays: no one's butterflies are
stuck on weeping quicklime (not yet)
that doesn't hesitate; floor it.
High-pitched tires are slashed by the
hissing water, parked sometime on
sundays: no one's butterflies are
run over by broken sunshine.
One last time to make this right, keep
blinking back - stop flapping its wings
'fore they reek like pelting rain from
sundays: no one's butterflies are...
