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Moth

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When you rest that way

it reminds me of an Egyptian pyramid.

Your wings fold into a triangle on a rail

full of porchlight.  A barometer of weather.

 

I consider my gurus

of which you don’t know.

It is easier for you to be still without words.

 

You are the shade of bleached driftwood,

the color of blond wings

with their jagged argyle bands.

 

I promise I won’t exchange this moment

for anything more than your hair strand of legs,

your breath that settles deep into a universe of unbound time.

 

Aren’t we the same?  Agree to it!

Yes, I want a little night bathing light.

Yes, you want a small word that returns everything lost.

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