You’d swear she was designed for self-immolation
The way the moth circles in logarithmic gyres,
Spirals down toward ad hoc pyres
(Campfires, candlewicks, shivaree mobs)—but reformation
From science fixes the error: crossed wires
In moths’ brains make them 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 eye’s arrayed guides, shows
The moth home. Rays shone
In spikes, like spokes from a hub, draw her to cars’
Headlights, lit windows, autos-da-fé, torches:
The moth’s led astray by our radiant porches.

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