The words flutter
above my cubicle:
razed, fecund, pernicious,
while the butterfly net of my mind
lies torn at my feet.
I attempt to gather the words
into the glass case of the page.
My mind yearns to ensnare words’ wings:
metonymies and ironies,
diphthongs, plosives, internal rhymes;
to lay out my findings in neat rows;
to touch them delicately,
pinning them to black cloth and
labeling them with Latin names.