A moth stuck upside down, soot stranded,
soft feather abdomen caught in cement webbing
spun around doorframes under the shed
in my backyard, I watch white wings flap with
willpower I can only imagine, exerting beams
my hands can see, forces that move sunflowers
toward the brightest star. Wings flap, but the moth
can’t fly away, spider noose too entwined.
The rain comes now, a curtain of droplets.
I can’t stop looking at the moth, this is just the way
life is, accordions on their sides in velvet cases, photographs
of skeletons and phantom lips. The girls eat citrus sorbet
close by, watch delicate winged creatures fall victim to
micrathenas hyperventilating, waiting for powder wings to
take a beat bereft of heart, slowing blood
the intestines go first. So when I cut the web’s line, the moth
doesn’t fly away. It’s on its belly, soaking in the summer shower
It couldn’t have already forgotten how entrapment caves the spirit,
but then again, I watch it crawl back under the door it was trying
desperately to flit away from, so fuck it, it’s just
shrinking, waiting for rain or spider’s final mouthful.