Moth
A winged sunset flutters, drawn
toward the lamp behind me.
Addled by errant desire
it bumps my knee,
leaves a smudge of moonlight.
Recovering, the moth drunkenly swoons toward the glow
again
heavy-winged and awkward,
a novice angel.
Now stained glass before the light
it feather-drums the lampshade,
insistent
delirious with longing.
Copyright (c) Anne Yohn2003. All rights reserved.
did someone make this declaration to you?
uh huh
that’s quite an attraction (not surprising given the recipient) – is it the person who attacked your feet of clay?
yep