At what hour free or confused in a light-trap, just as here the snow worm uni-toned and invisible on a spray of privet close up. Whispers. O you moths mimicking my neighbor Jonah, misremembered in the kissing parlor or rompish in the husks and muck. Bugs like hexametrists, beingful and groundless, lordy the spectacularity these cold summer days. Pink rubble-fern, the ling pug is pinkish too. And pug moths eat at heather and heath like we walk among trees, our aim to stick like headnotes to wings, waste no pairing spare and sloping destination, suns to hold us clear of verges, fetching at windfallen fruit.