i'm nothing but Nabokov
in chase of a butterfly,
but instead: i chase moths,
and among fox cackles,
i too find a respite,
a "resurrection" might one tell...
so sun and the butterfly flutter...
so moon and the lard-fly gamma,
or bony chequers and black
void insomnia, as thus heard:
forever you entombed in
the forever said: unrest -
that the carpenter's children might
fear me...
that the carpenter alone will not:
finding his work sensible
and worthy a roof over his head...
will not fear me eavesdropping
the congratulatory meal -
when all congregate...
but as my Friday sentences me to
the tomb of my body,
i am catching moths in the night,
for the moth is Islam's
version of the butterfly -
and from Shia aversion and mere Iran,
an opus plague of wonder:
gratis chant and the solitary woman's voice:
idealism above mortgage...
if only a dream... and by dream suffice...
then the asking merger of
such hopes... and later years un-lived...
then by swarm and by no condolence
the forfeit entombing...
                 charcoal chants,
as Catholic as Satanic on the pleading
reminiscence of said creed...
                      then onto moth,
the lard-fly from the Everest of Night...
as splendid in colour...
then unto the butterfly from the Sahara of Day...
or the said compliments, dying, slowly,
arbitrarily, or as feared: thus as eaten
and packaged: industrially
                              man's limbs equal
to chicken thighs.