Mothlight

Until the moth takes

wing light on dark

on your dark eye

I cannot express.



Hold up a flashlight

to things themselves;

separate the body

into day and night.



Across your screen

the moth wings

are many and pressings

wrinkled hands cupping



and dropping the dark.

Overhead a light

aurora performs its

handless weavings.



These are our angels:

the luminous who sing

in light of things

as they truly are.



That your dark eye

wing light on dark

might tear a part

for the daytime



I reach overhead.

I caress the mothlight

and with its dust

I mark my breath.