top of page


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.

bottom of page