In Anticipation of Some Good Migration

The fabric of your top was so thin

That when you set yourself on the sand between me and the skip-stone

 Sun I could see your shape veiled by it,

Something dark beneath airy gold. 

With the soft pad of your fingertips

You swiped the grit from the corner of your glossed-up lip

Then pointed skyward and said loudly for the wind

That never yet has a swallowtail alighted thereupon it. 

I set myself to figuring the cost

Of this winged thing engraved in the gold of a marriage band. 
Then the falling orb revealed again the silhouette of your breasts 

Beneath those flaming threads of little substance.

I quit my math for the sight of it. 

The metaphor was tattered and senseless. 

You were the swallowtail, not I. 

And that coastal wind set your outstretched palm to dancing,

Gently lifted, fingers flutter, fleeting thing. 
So I set myself to figuring the cost of insect pins --

Perhaps they come in holy gold. 

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