MOTH

Hermione Byron Low

The moth stick where the fabric itches,

clinging to the skin where hairs upstand.

Burrowed into the creases of most intimate places,

the moth claim all abandoned territory.

Stacked, folded, or chucked,

things get fucked when the moth arrive.

They feast on the fertile wool lands,

gnawing the conscience of their owner.

Flitting by your eye seeking odours, caverns;

moth creep in the silkiness of silence.

In the violet of evening a crowd fills the pews,

golden congregations fluttering by the holy pit.

The holes in your sleeves become gaping mouths,

hungry, salivating, showing no thread of restraint.

You attempt to catch them and SQUISH,

they flit away like an unfulfilled wish.

Fractured, desire is tethered to the cupboard in the room,

 stretched and strung between moth golden looms.

 All around you, the moth are eating;

Eating the way time burns.