in air, happily haphazard, the moth;
in water, a narrowing circle to death –
the wings lose powder and power.
lifting the smudging thing is a small mercy
in the pool of the world where
soft bodies are easily recycled.
left on the stones the shrunk wings
hold the eyes longer than would its detritus
longer to see whether it is too late
longer to see whether it is a life saved
longer to see a hope become a certainty,
then a shared moment.
she closes her eyes to the storm outsideand blankets her dreams from the nightmaresof water standing day and night in a shackwhose cold members are splinted together for warmthand dread
Dead weight the paths behind us still on our heels we returned with wind on our faces into the air of the household and its company of chairs and passage.
Sleep not willing to bed with me I rose and sought the soft folds of water. Eyes to the stars I floated in the cool white sent by streetlights over