Butterflies that flew
in 1932
still held in that summer
by the equisitely neat caligraphy
& cruel glinting pin.
I wipe the dust
from the glass
& they gleam
as if they still dream
of being
alive.
i smash the glass
clutch them in my hand & climb
from attic to roof
& slowly
drawing myself up to
my full height
release them
back into time
smile as they flutter
in the summer breeze
of then & now
their dead eyes
taking it
clouds...trees...skies
their one last lonely flight
back into nothingness