Lying Awake

This moth caught in the room tonight Squirmed up, sniper-style, between The rusty edges of the screen; Then, long as the room stayed light,

Lay here, content, in some cornerhole. Now that we've settled into bed Though, he can't sleep. Overhead, He throws himself at the blank wall.

Each night hordes of these flutterers haunt And climb my study windowpane; Fired by reflection, their insane Eyes gleam; they know what they want.

How do the petulant things survive? Out in the fields they have a place And proper work, furthering the race; Why this blind fanatical drive

Indoors? Why rush at every spark, Cigar, headlamp or railway warning To break off your wings and starve by morning? And what could a moth fear in the dark

Compared with what you meet inside? Still, he rams the fluorescent face Of the clock, thinks that's another place Of light and families, where he'll hide.

We ought to trap him in a jar, Or come like the white-coats with a net And turn him out toward living. Yet We don't; we take things as they are.