My Butterfly Again

My butterfly has disappeared, this man admits to snatching her. What else would he have commandeered before or after catching her? Some years ago, while on a train, I saw an angel face, I tried to get to her in vain, 'twas not to be the case. I wonder now, could it not be that she was called IRENE, and that she and my butterfly live happy and serene in Tweed Heads on the Aussie coast and with another poet. I might just make it uppermost to check this out - you know it. And if I find them, let's be clear: They both can stay right there. The girl will be a grandma, dear, the butterfly could care.