Tried to lift a swallowtail butterfly out of br a thick web, out of leg and wing fragments. br I think they were parts of moths and flies. br All the truncations, all the leaf chips, br dirty gauze strands, Chinese silver ash spores. br Held my thumb knuckle out for it to walk on. br That hesitating, that erotic clinging, that br flexing and trembling. At a garage window. br I forgot my tools inside the truck, br my work shoes by the pedals. br It came out on one thread. The window br behind the web was blank. Leather br insoles held the stained shapes of br my feet, those white swallows br pointing their beaks br at the underworld, pointing br at the carnivorous, pointing br and clinging. I was trying to lift it br through the leg and wing fragments br past the dry torso of a wasp. br Wrist bones secured with wire br in documentaries, fragmented in br my head. Mass grave photojournalism, br as usual quotas waiting for us, br incidental naturalism of our malice br documentaries went through my br interior gauze and webs. I was trying br to be steady. My hand close to the foot br below the wing, close to the breath br jumping on the rim of dirty strands. br To the antennae that looked moist, br to the remarkable fetal expression, br I held out my thumb knuckle.