Moths And Men


You’d swear they were made for self-immolation
the way they spiral onto ad hoc pyres
—bonfires, candlewicks, shivaree mobs—
but crossed wires
is what prompts moths to offer themselves
as tithe to some lunatic church. Delve
deeper: what misfires
is an elegant compass to which stars
and moon, optically infinite, are lodestone
of a luminate sort: their glow,
shed on her eyes’ arrayed guides, shows
the moth home. Rays shone
in spikes, like spokes from a hub,
draw her to headlights, autos-da-fé, torches:
the moth’s led astray by our radiant porches.

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