The Killing Jar

There is no dizzying cloud
of ether
up this high --
only heat upon heat inside
the top-sealed stairwell.

On the ground-level landing
three stories down,
shade lures
rainbow-winged beauties
from their feast
among the flowers.

How soothing a respite
from the summer sun.
How brief, too,
if not for wide, tall windows,
enticing upward
floor by floor
with promises of sky.

Once up this high
in stifling heat,
they forget the doorway,
lost beneath flights
of wooden stairs.

They alight on sills
and stare beyond,
striving now and then
with flutters of wings
as soft as feathers
on the glass.

They thirst a day
or two,
suffocating,
then tumble down
on stilled wings of gold,
black velvet,
blue satin.

How quietly they land
upon the cool cement,
three feet from freedom.

Scott Speck
08/05/2002