swatted at,
flicked from a screen
in this damp routine.
Poor papillion de nuit,
born en gris,
from the sun
you have been shunned.
You turn to incandescence,
the warmth and essence
in burning filament
which you circumvent.
Caught by those who fling
and pull at paper wing,
all you want is to absorb
the precious glowing orb.
Soon you feel the cruel reality
of noctuidae mortality
with a flicker and a sigh,
in this musty thick July.
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