First the moth, caught in the lampshade
like a lunatic, hurled
between his scalding vision and the cell-wall.
And the spider, slinging sailor-like
high ropes, or bunched
in a patient little fist of appetite.
Next the daddy-long-legs, forever lost,
reading the wall like a foreign language in Braille.
And once, miraculously, a dragonfly,
rustling its wings in the still, inside air,
round the room bewildered, and out again,
bearing its beautiful fuselage
with all the unnecessary dignity
of heartless creatures.