The butterfly trap has yellow netting, delicate
as if in mimicry of its prey, though
I pray,
and my hands don’t mimic
my gods.

Instead, they sink low
into my body
into my being
as if trying to extract some mortal sin,
some meagre truth
that maybe isn’t there,
but my hands aren’t lithe enough
they plunder the within
         —godforsaken wasteland, decreed—

perhaps barren, perhaps broken
so I take your hand, webbed
faintly blue and green
            -veined by your wrist
                     —a summer baby, wearing
                         summer-coloured clothes—

thin fingers fluttery w/ pulse jump and
I guide the tips inward
             slowly
towards where pain throbs sweetly
your heart beating in sync.
finds its target, delicate
but your fingers are strong.

This
          —I tell myself—
                                       is why

I pray to you,
to beauty & blue man, and not
to God.