With my tiny net, I pluck a
Word from the air and drop it
In the jar, sealing the lid.
The best words are small, pliable,
Reliable. Hand in glove,
They fit like my net was meant for
Only them. An easier catch
Than usual, I realize now
That this word is already dead.
A brief life adjourned, it will never
Discover the warmth of the page
Against its skin. The word lays face up,
Dry mouth open, slitted eyes,
Abraded wings. A subtle breeze—
My breath—tilts its delicate body.
Replacing the lid, I pick up
The net again. Patient as a
Spider, I wait for its cousin.

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