Child in Grey (to be cont'd)

One of those early navy blue mornings
in that north Florida neighborhood

the end of spring

where swarms of orange and black caterpillars
formed a revolution
on my back porch.

In those mornings I adopted a few
and in their sticky infancy would crawl
upon my 6 year old cheeks, the Milkweed Butterfly.

And I'd throw back my head, eyes up, up.
To wink at the cocoons in the sky.

But at this time I had not yet absorbed

that they were also comrades of that gypsy penis

and would someday explode.