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The Greek psi, first letter of psyche, the word for breath,
Resembles both a windblown iris and a butterfly drinking nectar
Through its uncurled proboscis before the light wind bears it away.

In his favorite photograph, Whitman sits with a butterfly on his finger.
Yet those dark, iridescent wings were cardboard, Whitman’s own cutout,
For the soul, he knew, was made from bright scissors and an old man’s hands.

Lorca dreamed Whitman’s beard woven with ribbons of butterflies.
They eddied among his whiskers, dappling Manhattan streets,
Clothing and uncovering the thighs of men and women with rainbow silks.