They ran our love through all their screens,
Then told us we were not a match;
Their apparatus brought to bear
On anyone their snares could catch
These butterfly collectors who
Place everyone behind the glass,
In categories, rimmed with signs,
A handful from a teeming mass
Identities defined by them
Are not the main thing, no. Instead,
It is the locks, the box, the cage,
And making sure their subjects all
Stay dead
To share is human:
