The Collector

The moths

that graced

the walls

at home,

the gasplamps

shone on

bracing wings,

Ra-ma-per-ta Per-ar-ma-ta

He crafts a serpent

and is spent,

lays them out

in printed lines

of rustling

iridescence.

Pinned-to-cork,

afloat

in silent sky of dust,

adrift

in ticking frames.

A life

a half-spent life

alone,

to label

a life

make it

less –

a tenderness.