Under Glass

If I could catch that moth,
that fluttering, wayward thing
that beats about inside me all the day and half the night,
(and insignificant net could certainly do it)
I’d stick him through the head
with a pin that’s long and thing,
a pin that long and strong enough to mount him under glass;
(an insignificant pin could certainly do it)
I’d learn of him once for all,
the color of his wings,
the nature of those crazy things that fooled me all these years:
purple, red or blue,
yellow, white or black,
and whether they’re one and all of these and a shade or two besides;
(an insignificant harmony or dissonance they could be)
I’d learn them once for all,
I’d know them, every vein,
so clear to all my neighbors, so invisible – to me.
Under Glass

by Alfred Kreymborg, 1916
