Not a Moth

the night butterfly does not
drink tears the night butterfly
hears or rather feels
with her antennae wrought
of silver filigree the quiet negligees
of dreams’ petals rippling
in the breeze of their mind’s making
she lands stills her dark wings to drink
and rest on the breast of the crest of what rises
then falls to fuel the blue-black
sheen of her feathery scales
the moon catches
in flashes brief
and only while a human sleeps

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