Spicebush Swallowtail

Inside, all vibration.
Galaxies made in wing, vein, song.

Compulsions beat against
the light, tremble against the most
specific things. Spicebush.
Joe-Pye. Thistle. Electrons
tell other electrons through tin cans
and strings spun of blue, cast
across the quantum foam.

Outside, all rules, low to the ground.
Six months, maybe seven—
forelegs drumming taste the chemistry.
One egg, maybe two. Everything
depends on a silk-stitched leaf,
a seep, cloud, gene-encoded glyph.

There is no unbelonging, or even
transformation. You are already
who you are supposed to be.