The two butterflies escaping over the wall
of the zoo are already drunk on their idea
of freedom. They miss me by accident or skill.
They're white and gone like strips torn from a bible
blessed and incoherent on a wind that brings
the wild manure fumes of zebras, elephants
and camels up and over the netball courts,
over the garden of a mental hospital nearby,
carrying those two mad converts up into
a maze of leaf and shadow where the sunlight's caught,
where sins and lies are just our weaknesses forgiven,
waved away like armfuls of those white, torn up butterflies.
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