Moth Song
Nights I spent trying to understand
with moths on the wall. Wrestling for
best words, close-reading, in love
with an ellipsis that says a response
is coming. I only had to imagine
the garden where it was spoken,
narrate our voices, dub birdsong,
light it after a fetid summer evening,
air warm and flies like murder,
trying for strawberries, and our
attempts to fend them off,
as it ruins the taste to know what
they've touched, and things touch
in this world. It might have
been August. No tone or facial cue
by way of confirmation,
or dispute, so why ever not?
Let it happen. Let's let it happen.
Wing-beats I cupped for you.
I wonder what was heard.
Nights I spent trying to understand
with moths on the wall. Wrestling for
best words, close-reading, in love
with an ellipsis that says a response
is coming. I only had to imagine
the garden where it was spoken,
narrate our voices, dub birdsong,
light it after a fetid summer evening,
air warm and flies like murder,
trying for strawberries, and our
attempts to fend them off,
as it ruins the taste to know what
they've touched, and things touch
in this world. It might have
been August. No tone or facial cue
by way of confirmation,
or dispute, so why ever not?
Let it happen. Let's let it happen.
Wing-beats I cupped for you.
I wonder what was heard.