I like looking at pictures of butterflies in his book. My favorite is the luna moth, huge and pale green, with crescents on the wings. My brother finds one of these, and shows it to me. "Don't touch it," he says. "Or the dust will come off its wings, and then it can't fly." - Margaret Atwood in 'Cat's Eye'

I find you sleeping under your old blanket, your hands, oily as you claim, on your face like clouds covering the moon or the wings of a luna moth, pale green crescents hiding a throbbing grace. I daub myself with it. And thus I am sunk in your dust. You can't fly away from me now like some receding star, for you are everything I now cradle in my slick lines of fate, the glimmer, the essence, of a life.