Tropical Butterfly House

As we enter, me and my girl, 
the delicate proboscis of her finger 
unfurls, hopeful, even expectant. 
She is a perfect, peach-soft landing.  
An owl butterfly with luminous wings
swoops past, not noticing the nectar 
of her pointer aimed at nothing  
except Angel Trumpets blowing down 
from the glass. We walk in slow circles, 
lapping an island of outlandish flowers
where plates of rotten papaya, cantaloupe,  
are left out to draw the Lacewings,  
Pink Hearts, Swallowtails.  
We’re careful our footfalls 
don’t crush powdery wings, 
the crisp tap of our shoes reassuring.
We know we must go soon. Humidity 
weighs as much as the jilt.  
By the exit, a blue morpho alights 
on a man’s bald head like a hat 
at a jaunty tilt. Courteously, 
he kneels, and her wispy hair 
breezes back from her face, 
her breath close enough to graze  
an electric spree of scales.