Blue moon butterfly
Let me see the wick of wing, white moons
by blue-violet halos, etching
the black. Let me remember
it is also not that. Let me be
the compound eye
the ultraviolet spectrum,
populates the invisible
we call hope, which is also
not that. When will you come, Lord?
We have asked over the ages, over
the surfaces that trick light, over structures
which overlay all. Iridescent eyespots
blue the moon, shiver the signal—
your touch tender, silver-bloomed,
you come, Lord, there is no when,
only a different light.
Let me not forget.