Vegetable box deliveries are perilous.

Moth dreams

I have been in the fridge for days now.
My blood has slowed in the folds of lettuce,
which have contained so much in the way of
water, of time. It has all slowed. I have lost
all hope of taking back my normal life, exiled
as I am from the cropped fields, the gentle
rolling earth. There is not a scratch on me.
As soon as I have the legs for it—yes, six,
all there—I will choose a cubby-hole
nearby and head for upside-down, mothblood
will gather in my mothbrain. I wonder what it is
I've missed. I have been dreaming cold
in the depths of full fat moons and irresistible
light. My dreams have not been of terror
but of chasing, my thrilled mothheart beating
hard against the window; my wings through air.