i am Nabokov’s butterfly

paper thin wings grow in fantastic colors
behind my shoulder blades.
eye spots deepen on the tops of each
and wink when i fly.

settling quietly on a leaf in a forest in old Russia

there is a sudden net upon me,
Nabokov! oh how he
drains my life, pins down my wings …
and with quiet precision,
i am immortal.


1 Comment

Filed under conceptual, fantasty, stream of consciousness

One response to “i am Nabokov’s butterfly

  1. Pingback: Saturday afternoon poetry | Press Send Poetry

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