When the batteries
begin to die inside its white 

plush belly, the assortment 
of cheerful noises it makes 

when you squeeze it
becomes singular 

and crude, the sound 
of a planet falling 

through one universe 
and into the next, through 

that one, too, falling 
and falling into god knows 

what, falling and falling
and never landing.  Still, 

the butterfly’s face 
(or whatever the hell

it’s supposed to be—little 
bird, bumblebee?) stays 

the same:  knowing 
smile, rosy cheeks.