Brunch Sonnet 3

As for the butterflies, I dismiss them. I can’t love

well a thing I can’t hold on to—the petting hand,

the elbow slung around the neck in jest, the shoulder

grab, the single finger poke. To touch is to attach—

at the very least there’s cells of mine left on her shirt

or on his bottle that I handed him. As in every poem,

“she” and “he” are every man and woman that I’ve known,

though I won’t know everyone forever, and it’s come to

my attention that I have a choice regarding who it is

that gets to stay. I will or won’t continue in the patterns

that I’ve made. The butterflies will have their way; they’ll

land or skitter off into a better set of petals, and I will

move to touch those in close proximity, using words

or polka-dotted feathers, using what I have at hand.