is only a dead dream: how we thought we
would have a branch-full of chrysalises
by now. how we thought that you and i
would find pollen in our poetry, how we could
not give a lazy beady eye to the neon flowers
around us—we were sure that our feelers would know
only the kiss of spring breezes on their tips
and not the piercing of well anything
as we flapped along together. we dreamed
of being dragonflies instead: joined at the sex
in flight, but more elaborate in the form of our bodies.
still we press on as something that flies does,
waiting to see if our wings can make it over these caverns outside of our bed.