Butterfly over the Colossus (1960)

For Sylvia Plath in Memory

I
It is a foible of mine to mine the past
A butterfly of inestimable dimensions

Like a prop in godzilla, shadows the gardens

It is like one of those fellas that go from poem

To poem, imbibing all manner of puns

Touching the poetic with the forensic gloves

So as not too leave too many obvious clues

Dissecting the night workers boredom

As they watch the meter clocking away

Then, unlikely as it is, with an insect like this,

A fragile, feeble thing, decides to pig out

On the gristle of childhood and religion

The powder falls, fairy like into the eyes

Smite not the mite, for the father is the mother

Then in the sublime, from the height of Gilpin

It flutters over the anglo-saxon alliterations

Not sure if it is countable or uncountable