Alan Dugan

UNTITLED POEM

The Monarchs, the butterflies, are commanded:
Go take a flying fuck: Make worms.
This is their own form of intercourse.
I watched a couple for a while
but got bored: watching others’ passions
is strictly for biologists and voyeurs.
When they finally did get separated
after the hard work of the ecstasy
they flew off separately immediately
looking for edible flowers in a breeze.
If one or both of them survive the swallows
who can snap the body of the bug and let
both of the wings drop perfectly intact,
oh they could fly for thousands of miles
southwards on our strong north winds.