Too much to ascribe
to the heavy air
circulating false tropics,
yet more comers
continue to drip slowly
from the mouth
of each golden chrysalis.

They are let go
twice a day,
and when they die
a girl goes around,
picking them up
from walkway
and pond, checking
for damp tissue
left on moss, vermiculite,
and asphalt, patting down
soil beneath angel trumpets
steeped in honeysuckle
and musk.