The moth in the moonlight
loses to the mirror of
water clasped in the laden
vessel, the sky held
as if in cupped hands,
drowning as its wings stir and
spill the stars the stars it was offered by
the ghost cast upon the innocent skin
carrying that heavy shine.
The face sags, wearying the mirror,
the spotted constellations dusting
the glass mingling with the flaws and
freckles of the slack skin in
the gatherings of the flooded eyes,
as if to say this is the way
the world will take it, this is
the way of the world, always
falling into the door held open by the light.
The water neither waits nor watches
the seasons or the sky or the smoke,
it holds and is in turn held, kept open
like palms proffered to
the relentless heavens, all wings and
wonder as the moon wakes unseen
by the slick silver of lost moths or
the mocking constellations,
offering only ever a place to land.
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