if Lorenz had dreamt in color

Chaos, indifferent,

leans back against a faded brick wall,

gray smoke matching gray air,

flecked strands of his head uncovered against the cold.

Thoughtful, thoughtless,

flicking burning embers to a muddied ground

where they die, each, an inglorious death

among footprints and soda cans.

He exhales and looks

in at grudged and paned windows

on a caged smile:

Chaos, infected

with the melodrama of his forbears,

caught between definition

and eternity;

a no-longer youth,

not yet wise.

Intractable, remorseless,

a precise instant

in jeans and mismatched socks.

Distracted by a flicker of butterfly wings

etched with destiny in black and gold,

he ducks,

brushes the spiderwebs

out of his hair,

maybe even winks.