The Year Of Dead Butterflies Poem by Max McGovern

And there I was
Walking back into
The night,
With the man
My mind called
A best friend,
But my soul
Had known since Egypt.
The moon,
A fedora,
And a cape
Hanging
Over my left arm.
Not so much concealing
But rather
Rendering me
Incognito
To any old
Acquaintance
Passing us by
In the darkness.
I was darkness.
The clouds had
Morphed,
From checkerboard lattice
Into a veiling ocean that
blocked or
showed the moon
Depending on
Ups and
Downs of conversation.
This was
After all,
The year of dead
Butterflies.
Intoxicatingly new and
Two life loving beings,
Stuck indelibly
Like very different photographs.
I kept one
And gave it to my mother.
The other
I chanced upon the garden.
Knowing soon enough
I’d lose track and trace
Of both.