Butterfly Collection

Butterflies on display, in genteel rows,
Pinned politely dead for our inspection,
This is your home now, for how long who knows?
Coffined in glass for your own protection.
Because a Victorian collector
Took an interest in you, swept a net
To preserve by killing. Some selector
Claimed you for a small museum’s set.
Deathless dead bodies, providing their tale
For school-children, tight in an airless case
Uncorrupted by life or decay stale,
A see-through grave-yard that reflects my face.
I would not crave such immortality,
Let my flesh be dust and my soul stay free.

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