under the stairs in the museum
the butterfly’s tray
the beetle’s tray
static upon the pins
of time’s enfilade
fading iridescence
who pinned them thus and why
and what do they say
wrapped in the camphor of
time’s tales of olden days
secreted in their cabinets of draws
down where the sun doesn’t shine
no more upon their sad colours
where stasis reigns sublime
one after another
the drawers open and close
a child is torn speechless
and turns to run out and out
out across the sun’s meadows
to catch that illusive memory
dancing on the head of a pin
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