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- Kimberly Murphy
- May 5, 2018
- 1 min read
Maybe the moth in fact hates to fly- a maddened relief when landing,
until a vicious wind seers it back up on it's inefficient wings.
It's famous composure is that of disorganized thrashing into screens and lamp shades.
But it's easiest moments could be unchecked- those of windless August evenings where comfort is found on dusty, uninterrupted windowsills.
No curious breeze, just resting with a soft but trophied half-trembling breath.
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