Its wings don’t ground into dust, nor do they signal
another ending. That is up to us, our rippled fingertips
smoothing the brown contours that flutter away
from our wish. The wings’ scales are tiny windows,
cathedrals of solar dust sealed into letters
that contain all of our questions: why are we here?
where do we go when we die? are we really so alone?
The moth collides endlessly with the moon, we see
its celestial weaving with immeasurable fragility,
and we feel night exposed for the first time again:
chafing pine needles erasing all we thought we knew
of this life, the owl screeching the universe’s original
vowel. When the earth is no longer ours the letters
will slide open easily as a palm cupping water
or a moth revolving around a porch light pouring
fine dust into a thirsty mouth that calls everything loss.