It is enchanting,
being just slightly out of reach
for both
butterfly
and hunter.
There is nothing
luminous
about being stuck
in the corkboard
with a pin – wings splayed open
like a porno –
nothing miraculous.

Whereas
not knowing?
A wrenching, luscious tease.
A sumptuous maybe.
A reach resulting
in an empty net.
A promise
for tomorrow.

There is no romance
in clarity:
a bright lamp
lighting you up,
making you transparent.
But some people
will do that
anyway,
force your pupils to theirs,
call it ‘direct.’

Maybe, though,
you’ll escape the pin;
maybe
the chase will be all
they crave.

Or,
you could lay
in the stage lights,
– knowingly –
close your eyes,
feel theirs,
dream of freedom,
dream of escape.
Hope they
see only what they
seek. Nothing more.

Nobody
– not even butterflies –
want to be forced
to examine their beauty.

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