Summer 2002
	Annie Kantar
	Summer Project
	Worst was the butterfly's wings lapping against the jar, a nervous chorus brushing and missing, brushing and missing the edge of glass: if it saw, it saw cold
	wet grass clinging the jar's edge, the blue-brown wing on a finger of bark, orange-blue, in the sky at sunrise: worst was how, tacked to cardboard, it hung and fell
	and the children placed it on the sidewalk under glass until fire hit and burned through its seams lines breaking body from wing: worst was lifting stones,
	looking for the clear-winged one who pulsed over bushes anywhere it liked, through the yard past the pine into the weekds, brushing rain
	off a leaf, catching light in the net.