Other at the Vernissage

Venoms, emblems, figures fragment,
With Balkanised encadrement;
A white admiral's wings pulsate
Faintly on my back –
A barricade to isolate,
For who would trespass on the weight
Of wings, in onerous catchment
Of a maniac?

Other, here at the vernissage,
Where smaller frames through static charge
Affix to a primary work,
Titled Lazarus,
My soul is alate, a bulwark,
While my physical self is murk,
The bulk of my shoulders is large
Yet a nothingness.

Epanorthosis, pulse, nay, force,
Holding an irresistible course
At death, was countered, as forthtold
When Lazarus rose.
I leave and head over to Old
Street. The autumnal air is cold,
And within the station's concourse,
Leaving its repose,

The butterfly finds my shoulder
And notice, then, of its holder;
Whereupon, smoothing epaulette
To mind it clearer,
Careful not to unseat it yet
Expeditious, I weave to get
Back to the gallery; colder
And nearer, nearer.