Dangling slow from groping hands,
Gently aflutter, wing'ed lace is limp.
Tired wings flitting, once grand.
How wrinkled and red and crimped.

Would they blame nectar? Would they blame
The cloth the butterfly slips into, its pattern?
While the sky is out of reach, they'll say, What A Shame
Of the man who pricked his fingertip after.

Up on the wall she sits silent,
Shut away in glass casket–or plaque.
On corkscrew bed, brilliant, vibrant.
Tack Tack Tack.