Again

          After each daily death come flurries of
resurrections.                 One night, a swallowtail
saved a lackluster dream;  later, on rough
terrain, absent all sprig, what tipped the scale

was a willful warbler.           Today, assail-
ing winds and mushroom-fog conquer the hour

between skid and roadkill. God knows, under
the muffler’s breath, where lies a beast’s defeat,
knows how a field condones the wilted flower—
Ice on the fur soaks in, through waning heat.