The one who fixates my love is a moth, pale and lunatic, come to bask against the glass that walls me. Her plectrum eyes, her cautious feet, every night alighting outside, far-near, far again, frail with mastery of me. I shift; she shifts. She goes; I whirl, aimless, wracked by betrayal and enraged. Lush with the barbed thickets, fluent in dusk’s caress, why return to me at all? To make my want burn brighter? Speak of anything but touch. I can imagine. It is enough.