Oh, lepidopterist
I have followed you through many warm months
Was spectator to your mad attempts through dry New Mexican air
And maintained faith
When the net came up empty
I was hypnotised by crickets rubbing their wings
And listened to your comely recitations at dusk
". . . and deity, and inspiration,/And life, and tears, and love. . ."
I read to you as the sun rose
As you reclined in your bath, your net leaning against the side
Weekenders came to inspect your captives
And asked whether butterflies grew
Sometime this morning
Wearing only baggy shorts and tennis shoes
You go out into the dawn
You know it flies in the big square states
You wait with a lit cigar between two fingers, the net poised
Above one shoulder
Suddenly, a fatal curiosity
Lites unsuspectingly on a suspecting brow
So beautiful, it takes my breath away
The wings, almost transparent
Continue to flutter
Pinned to your board
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