A mourning cloak butterfly circles the porch and yard three times, going behind my chair, including me in whatever it means to outline.


  1. OMEN

    A papillon with the mourning cloak
    bodes grief; leave it free to flit from
    whence it came to where it goes.

    Capture it, and you become a gaoler
    of the ghost it carries from unknown
    gardens, uncharted lanes, lost zones:

    Mark how it circled you thrice before
    alighting on your chair not your tea cup
    where it is moist and of considerable

    comfort. Let it leave its yet undelivered
    message: a brew of auguries and omens
    from the cocoons of the netherworld.

    Do I scare you with this ghoulish rant?
    Or shall I leave you to scare yourself with
    your own disembodied yearnings?

    Ah, but beware my morning porch friend,
    beauty, wherever you find it, is an omen.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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