The Mythical Man Moth

As if rot and verdure weren’t enough,
I then became the mythical man moth,
and I fluttered around, that summer, not moon,
but incandescent after incandescent,
each honey-colored orb in the warm night,
each thrumming with the wings of my cohorts,
all in paroxysm for those faux-moons,
encased in glass, or perspex, and humming
with their own dead, but electric, heartbeat.

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