The Line
by Margaret Ross
Listen to the moths give their bodies
to block it, wings pressed against
the lit screen, even an inch of it,
undaunted, thrashing the flame,
thrashing into it, and, the flicker, then,
hissing: it is better in darkness.
This is how the selfish mind loves
into only: by fusion, erasing
the multiple, clouds’ furrows dirt’s
furrows, the stems each veined
and tissued separate until our body’s
spines loosen in the hill’s. It is safe
now. The rooster ate each
hen into him and the crickets
expand into sound. We are only
while we are still blind. Dawn
cuts out the trunk and drains its shadow.
White sheets on the line like a row of doors,
as the wind rips open the light.
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