Poem Hunter
FJ ( / )


Distinctly speaking yes, I stole you
From the park, the fir trees and when
Walking the Downs in summer (which
Came closest to being) . It is not for
The sake of man but a lonely oddity
To straighten my collection of fragile
Butterflies, shells, flowers long-dried,
Beetles and bones; to pin all to a cork
Board and comment on their species or
How timely the process of decay. So
Dead things never wriggle free to fly
Against my lids in dreams, to scatter
Moonlight from their delicate wings
Or catch on silvery things kept locked
In drawers. Filed and packed reminders
Of my function to memory; in flimsy
Skeletal variety; I intended to print the
Patterns of things that ended whilst
Resting in the leaves or beating face
Against hopeless glass windows for
The dichotomy of nature’s vanity.
Row upon row I never let you speak
To me; allowed deafness to overtake
Insatiably just in case the weakest
Breath created flutterings cheated of
Muscle; wrongly reinstated life to a
Narrative. Once a bristling catalogue
Of sightings, all culminated when
You first broke against the dark and
Drank the curving, stretching arc of
Blue forever, stained with dandelion
Puffs. Suppose you felt it was enough?
I’ll count your marks before they fade,
Press you out a little longer if I may
With salts and shadowy sun-free shelf
Till gradually years denature you to
Something else. Your glass chrysalis
Preserving wish hidden underneath a
Box of porcelain, lockless rusted keys,
An image (poorly captured) of the sea.

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