I'm sitting still
not trying to catch butterflies,
My shoulder's for the moth
flying around at night
by the light,
ghost white wings and dusty - flying and floating in circles,
they're amplified amongst the insects
swarming,
I spot her flirting
with the candle fire
that just one burn
will ash of her body – I know,
she lands on walls and crawls
the steepest of angles
near the tides of brightness
on the bay,
she wades in ambiguous patterns
creating dynamic shadows
of mistaken misdirection - fluttering up and down
throughout the present towards me,
She'll land with all intentions
of devouring the clothes on my back
and I'll let her,
The summer sun is a hot one