I found a square of paper in the trash
a sticky yellow quadrilateral
I found an empty parallelogram
the blank plane of a bright golden rhombus
I found a square of paper, a Post-it
like a women net, discarded as trash
I found a thought that fluttered by, dark-ink
flowing, blue-script trapped between right angles
The inspiration of a butterfly
Nobokov was in love with butterflies
he loved the subtle variegations
the micro-changes in coloration
he spilt more ink recording these, than he
ever did composing prose and fiction
the butterfly's wings, marked their migrations
As a child I was cautioned to take care
with the butterflies, warned not to touch them
lest I brush the magic dust from their wings
The butterflies are pixie-like, floating
flying, they are gravity defying
Barrie wrote, that with a sprinkle of dust
and a laugh, his heroine took the skies
going to battle with a pirate, whose
only fear was time, the tick-tock turning
of the clocks constant hands, filled Hook with dread
Wendy fought for the pipe-playing-boy-god
laughing she flew with a Titan named Pan
All butterflies bear the image of god
the horned-one, dancing spritely in the wind
goat-footed Pan the God of wild places
timeless Pan, God of loneliness...madness
Pan, the God of shock and feral desire
traits boys are taught to temper, or become
wild, lost in the haunts of the inner child
Nabokov loved butterflies...the chrysalis
he loved beauty, to witness it emerge
through the metamorphosis of a worm
he loved the heroes of a tragedy
anti-hero, the tragedy itself
the destruction of tyrants, and of self
he basked in the subversion, of old age
corruption, the morass of a wild youth
he loved the lament and caught in his pages
like a poem on a Post-It, the fragile
nature of longing, as delicate as
the netted butterfly, that once acquired
lives a few moments before it expires
