A BUTTERFLY'S TONGUE

Capable of being born, now the heat is inconsistent.
I want to please you today or him the next day.
My next durable plot can deepen and extend,
I lost an uncle the other day and now my father
is the only one left. I feel left too because I over-identify
with being a calf, a calf hidden in the lawn. Capable of producing
corrosion or blue milk. We find coincidence alluring, intriguing
mystical to our fated drabness, so we don't wear perukes
anymore, but what of mild or serious pneumonia -- my
mother had it when I was born, so prickly I was, a sheep
with coarse wool, a cap to hidden possessions, oh my dear
family is too stubborn for gifts and miniature problems.
Onto insects and lacerated wings.
I tell them I've lost friends, and is it hereditary? We can't
be sure, and no, we aren't really sure. Capability, is it the same
as mutability? A magic number was what I lived by,
yet physiology and nutrition seemed more accessible
but less interesting a food. What internal cell pressures
do we have to guide our insides, does this make us truly
private, a chemical pensive part, misleading the family
to clauses, to pinnacles. From earth to home to domestic grievances,
what power is it to deal misunderstood cards to everyone?
It will feel powdery and untrue all at the same time,
so what of it, what kind of self-portrait can I have?