Drained out fluids, dried into glue,
anchor you to the roadside.
Your good wing fluttering
when cars pass by,
its iridescent blues
no longer carrying you
until the yet far away night.
Sipping nectar from blossoms,
no more your joyful job.
Not hovering near buddleia,
this hot grey pavement
is where you’ll stay,
waiting for the ants.
