Later, Past the Story

Psyche’s wings became her
Offspring, for who can stop
Dreaming of small pleasures?

From every shimmering
Scale like a floating lens,
Each stitch of tapestry

Culling its own palette,
Another butterfly,
Distinct, and another,

Until her wings were flown,
And she was left to float
On crimson and silver

Threading, left enchanted
By lingering vision,
The dozens fluttering

Around her, bearing her,
Hēdonē, Hēdonē,
Soul’s lids closing on thoughts

Where the butterflies touched
And kissed skin, the pleasures
That they were still, still there.