We are stardust
particles in flight
connected reincarnate
of revolutions
of parental galactic glide,
they swirl in the motion of me
and outside myself,
are still swirling
flinting.
Wing dust
flecks on my window
golden powder shaken loose in collision
They insist on the excitement, dart around
our cars.
We are the intrusion, in some light,
but since the butterflies
hatched and unfurled, cars are the norm
yet they still dance in the wind, top the windshield
and roll into the current left behind.
Am I the magic carpet ride?
The drug of choice for teenage butterflies?
For those two minutes when a butterfly might
actually be sixteen and throw caution, well,
to the wind and
find their end in yellow stardust.
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