scooped up in his mesh
of threads, as he swings
his pole. Wings are made

to fly, not fold.  She won't be
smeared on a slide to be magnified
by doctored eye. She's not

a specimen to be analyzed over
and again, by white coated men. He can't
trap her light in a jar, as a firefly

at night. She's a star
burning bright in the onyx
sky. She must breathe, or she'll die.