In the garden

A cabbage white found me
as I sat in the sun
drinking beer from the bottle
and watching mice mutate.
He settled on the ornamental
rusting chair and rested
his wings. I greeted him quietly
offering him my forefinger as
soft repose but he ignored it,
wavered for a while, strikingly translucent,
then carried himself off on the breeze.
I watched him disappear and
wished him well. The mice
swelled.