All night long, they bounce their segmented little eyes
against whatever artificial light source offers itself.
Can we assume that they try this all day?
I don't expect that they sleep.
I just image a moth,
frustrated at his failed efforts
each night, being surprised from the east
at 6 a.m., by an altogether much more attractive source
of light. "O, glorious life!", it would say,
and begin making for it.
All day long it would fly,
higher and higher.
Of course, it would never work.
The sun is 93 million miles above,
and getting slightly further each millennium.
And so, our moth would watch its hopes fade
with the evening, sigh. But wait!
What are all these little pinpricks of light beneath?
Streetlights and bug zappers call out.
Citronella bug-o-buckets beckon
with their contradictory sirens' songs.
Drift down gently, your short memory knows none
of the disappointment of fourteen hours past.
Or maybe they just become confused with the stars
and end up in space.
Or maybe they just sleep.