Moths, moths,
this is our
shelter, what
one of our kind
made for another
of our kind.
That light is
not a moon.
But an invention.
It keeps us safe
from stumbling
up the walk
or helps us to see
what it is
at the door.
In the morning
your bodies, shavings
of flight, here & there,
having surrendered.
You were always dying
in my sleep.
& I, your last
neighbor.
Before I take the brown broom
gently to your body,
I see your once-was.
With care, I study your eyes.
It is my job.
from the black mariaFind it in the library
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on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.
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