Thanks to sleight of proboscis and abracadabra 
via ommatidia, I’m seeing a Monarch, re- 
appearing out of thin air, eating sweet ooze, daring  
me to fathom the chutzpah of insects  

levitating prismatic from aster to hollyhocks  
to phlox and fluttering so incredibly close to flawless 
it’d be weird not to worship them daily 
until our respective deaths. If there’s anything  

bigger than human minds combined, then  
I just looked it in its 12,000 eyes, and while Heaven  
will be an absolute hoot, we’ve got kaleidoscopic 
angels (angels, I tell you!) spellbinding right here  

in our atmosphere, including this wanderer  
flitting by my face that I’m determined to stare at,  
unblinking, until—minus misdirection—it vanishes  
from view and transposes to another set of petals (like  

that!) enchanting me completely, because how can  
these beauties, these peacemakers of flower-love, these  
metaphors for the metamorphosing of meaning itself,  
these wind-shifters, these winged rainbows incanting  

quietly, yes, how can these audacious pollinators,  
sharing the same miraculous, molecular stuff as us,  
be the presto-chango answer to anything  
if not to the unconditional surrender of sadness?