The film of a butterfly ensures that it is dead:
Its silence like the green cocoon of the car-wash,
Its passion for water to uncloud.
In the Japanese tea house they believe
In making the most of the bright nights:
That the front of a leaf is male, the back female.
There are grass stains on their white stockings;
In artificial sun even the sound are disposable;
The mosaic of their wings is spun from blood.
Cyanide in the killing jar relaxes the Indian moon moth,
The pearl-bordered beauty, the clouded yellow,
The painted lady, the silver-washed blue.
I think this is a really interesting and beautiful poem and found in a collection by Ruth Padel at https://www.amazon.co.uk/52-Ways-Looking-At-Poem/dp/0099429152/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1510774406&sr=1-3&keywords=ruth+padel