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The Moth Disturbs the Night
It is late. The owls sleep. Moths lie stretched
Against the screen, their eyes
Afire from the inside light that glows
Duller as the daylight
Advances, from shrinking violet
To a cornflower blue,
And overthrows the violent night
With quiet heat. The wind
Stirs up the trees. From exhaustion my eyes burn,
A long absence of sleep
Penetrating their white with a wild
Red that tears, into which
Even emotions are soluble,
Cannot dilute. The sea
May speak to me. I have learned its rare language
Tonight. If only pain
Passed as quickly as winter's last storm
Gives way to spring's demands,
Or could be rendered chemically
Whole, as blue blood nearing
The patient lungs, or released to the open
Air from an opened vein,
Turns red. From a dark wall, a moth has
Fallen to the table.
Its head, brown feathers, its banded wings
Smeared and diminutive
Wedges of slate, it seems recently mined from
Wet earth; it resembles
The black clay in the fields after rain.
With a clap of my hand
I could kill it. The luminescence
Of its muddied wings stays
Me. Such random unnatural artfulness,
Retained for protection
From predators or a convincing
Identification
In courtship, is as fragile as the
Feathers of blood in my
Eyes, or the wings of cloud on the horizon.
Qualities unmastered
By it keep it alive, as breath, or
Heartbeat, or pain do me.
It is not from the unknown that I
Salvage a comfort which
Allows me to survive the night. But I may
Not know myself. The night
Weakens again. The moth lies still on
The table. I may sleep.