This room would rather be a closet.
White lights on a string garland
the shelf. In one dusty
corner, a moth in repose --
dead legs bent point at the ceiling,
as if entreating some moth deity
to wreak vengeance. Against
the cabbage rose-papered wall, sideways,
a relaxing chamber loosens
a Western Swallowtail. Abel,
the collector, wheedles, plaintive,
his furred voice larval.
"Please don't talk about leaving!"
He's just booked passage
to humid, troubled Sri Lanka,
where he hopes to wander,
dazed, through a blizzard
of yellow-winged beauty
with his indulgent queen, his pinned monarch,
by his side: a scene from a movie
documenting his pride, flaunting.
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