Frail Things

A predisposition for frail things, wandering lanes of moths with wings larger than elephant's ears effortlessly weaving through flipping tractor tires pouring out of the mane of a misplaced sphinx, they deftly maintain their frangible forms folding and unfolding circumspectly, just as we all expected, but then their wings sling acrid pools of watery mud all over us and the sphinx is standing by awkwardly trying to make pleasant conversation while we sit down in angry silence across from each other wringing out our clothing, eyes all searching for the reddest face... the face of who forgot to tell them not to.