Midas
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.
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