I creep in the shop, pigeon-toed, eyes bird-narrow and voided like black beads, you see, and my hand floats onto the halfmoon, floats like powdered dust. There's nothing much to look at; nothing much and riches only glitter once in fall.. If at all. Sadly, drifting homewardly I see I am freckled and pied, more cushion-curved than gypsy chic So I thieve the colours of the night-butterfly, the insipid taste of eye-candy. I am raw sugarcane for the eyes. I am a day-moth, who floats for a moment in the air, like the eye-shadow motes palely-bright that glisten, that sink slowly, that are barely air-resisting, insubstantial in flight.