Moth Complex

Lost tonight in the tangled identities of wispy souls
encircling neon orange street lamps,
as if they were the great Sun itself-
Somewhere in the drizzly darkness,

they all struggle with their Moth Complex.

And with their minds reeling from my historical fiction fables,
they accuse me of having a Butterfly Complex.

(Oh familiar Wisconsin night,
pregnant with low-pitched sighs...)

Yes it's true, crucify my pale emerald coccoon,
before my enchanting wings shadow the sun.

My wings do not rest lame on my thorax,
they stretch beyond shower petals and

glint merry in dew-drops;

Only I know the one secret that truly

seperates us (as if by nature's fate):

The flowers, those rainbow adobes of joy,

are much much easier to find by light of day-

(In the fog of the rabbit moon, they are lost
to the riverweeds [much like you, dear] )

So yes, I am a butterfly, pluck off my eager prolific
wings, before they eclipse your streetside sun.

(and, on some other day,
disintegrate into weary mothballs)