I find him eating butterflies. They are beautiful, he says.
If I eat enough of them, I will be beautiful too.
He stuffs a monarch in his mouth,
fuzz clinging to his lips.
I hear the flowers weep.
He begins to eat them too,
stray petals on his shoes.
A hummingbird arrives
dips her bill into his eye,
takes a long, melancholy drink.
What to think is he crazy,
or is he wise? Does beauty mind? Should I?