Jeremiah is the butterfly in this poem, clothed in your nimbleness, your light love that he
tore. You are the husk in this poem. Jeremiah and the crill. Jeremiah who you loved in the
willows, his nimble fingers on your rib skittering like birds on a wire. Every morning, his
side of the bed empty. You a meaty thing, unshaped pulp he could molt when he grew too
lovely. Jeremiah and the crill. Jeremiah and you, the husk. Jeremiah, gone from you gone
from gone. Jeremiah, the birdless willow tree, the wingsome, winsome, on the wing.